


Keeping All My Secrets Safe (Nobody Does It Better)

by canolacrush



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Campaign: Amnesty (The Adventure Zone), Canon Compliant, Demisexual Barclay, Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fade to Black, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Identity Reveal, M/M, Missing Scene, Ned hovers around offscreen like a ghost this whole fic, Non-Linear Narrative, Trans Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone), brief mention of a child with cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29507544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush/pseuds/canolacrush
Summary: The story of one man’s earnest belief that he’s in a Hallmark movie romance, and another man’s certain knowledge that he’s really,reallynot.  Unstoppable force meets immovable object,go!
Relationships: Barclay & Mama (The Adventure Zone), Barclay/Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	Keeping All My Secrets Safe (Nobody Does It Better)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey what’s up I’m two years late! In my head, this fic exists as a 50+k slowburn, but you know what I don’t have time to write? That. So instead I made it half that length, then chopped it up and scrambled it to give it the _illusion_ of being that slowburn. I hope you enjoy reading this!
> 
> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

They say time moves slower in a small town. But not only can it slow down, it can go backwards, fast-forward, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and then…stop entirely, before picking up again inch by inch, until it looks like nothing happened at all, and it has always been just a little town of kitsch and tourist traps. That’s what makes these places so appealing—they’re consistent.

Kepler, West Virginia was founded in 1823, then again in 1048, then in 2899. Somehow it’s always had a Pizza Hut, which is convenient.

Amnesty Lodge is established circa 1989, but the energy it draws from the geothermal hot springs makes it feel much older. Residents and visitors come and go. Today there is a cook who is more famously known as Bigfoot, and there is an agent of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigations trying to find out more about him.

The story’s pretty straightforward.

* * *

He and Joseph are on the porch that leads to the hot springs, bundled up in blankets and sipping hot chocolate, listening to the burble of the waters in the late winter night.

Now’s as good a time as any. “Say, Joseph?” Barclay asks.

“Hmm?”

“What made you decide to take up, you know…Bigfoot hunting, and all that?”

Joseph hums again around the lip of his mug and smiles, swallowing. “They ask a similar question when you’re applying for the Unexplained Phenomena department.”

Barclay smiles. “Well, I mean, there’s gotta be a story behind it, right? Most people don’t make it their job to go hunting cryptids without a good reason.”

“True.” He sips the hot chocolate again, looking out over the spring, then cradles the mug between his hands. “Well, when I was very young—ten or eleven, thereabouts—my, er…well, at the time, my Girl Scout troupe went camping way up in the North Georgia mountains.” He glances at Barclay, who just nods at him to continue, and he flashes a relieved smile at him and resumes, “Couldn’t tell you where the site is now, it’s been too long, but it felt like it was the middle of nowhere. One night I got up to use the bathroom, but somehow I got turned around on my way back to the tents. So there I was in the forest with my little flashlight, terrified and hopelessly lost—kept thinking every little noise was a bear, honestly—when suddenly…”

He fixes a look on Barclay, and there’s a spark in his eyes now, a visible hint of fervor that Barclay knows he probably shouldn’t keep indulging but feels a doting fondness for all the same. Barclay nods him on.

“…Suddenly, I saw a _cloud_ of these tiny, bluish-green lights, just…just _floating_ above the forest floor. Dancing, actually—it almost looked like they were dancing with each other. They weren’t _anything_ like I’d ever seen before.”

“Will-o’-the-wisp?” Barclay offers, teasingly.

Joseph side-eyes him, but he’s still smiling, in on the game. “A very good guess!” he says warmly, and raises his finger, not unlike Peter Cushing about to make a point. “But believe it or not, there’s a big reveal waiting at the end, just be patient.”

Barclay smiles. “All right,” he says, sipping at his cocoa again.

Joseph sips his own cocoa and continues, “At the time, I had no idea what I was looking at. I just stood there watching them, and slowly, my fear melted away. I have no idea how long I was there, but maybe it was…thirty minutes, forty minutes, maybe longer. And I came to the conclusion…that they were _fairies_.”

Barclay snorts, trying to hide his smile, but his eyes are crinkled with laughter.

“In my defense, I was _ten_ , and in the middle of the woods at night,” Joseph says, but there’s no heat in it—he’s smiling just the same.

“No, no, I just mean—well, it’s cute. Hell, if I was ten, I’d’ve thought the same thing, probably,” Barclay says, then scratches the back of his head and admits, “Though I was a bit of a crybaby when I was a kid, I probably would’ve thought they were ghosts or something and ran screaming.”

Joseph grins. “Really? You? I never would’ve guessed, what with the whole—” He gestures vaguely at all of Barclay.

Barclay shrugs. “I wasn’t always this tall, you know. Was a bit of a runt actually. Was scared of the dark, too. And of swimming with my eyes open. And spiders. And basically anything that looked at me funny. Drove my brothers up the wall with how many things I was scared of.”

“Oh, you have brothers?”

“Yeah,” Barclay says, and he turns his eyes to the hot springs and tries not to think about them too hard. “Eight of them.”

“Big family.”

“Yeah.”

Joseph eyes him a moment, waiting, then nods to himself and says, “Anyway, at some point one of the chaperones realized I was missing and started yelling for me. I heard her, so I must not’ve been that far away from camp, and I found my way back. I tried to make her come with me to see them, but naturally it was far too late and she refused, and in the morning when I tried to tell everyone what happened, no one believed me. The kids all said I was just making it up, and the adults all said I must’ve been dreaming while I was sleepwalking. I was upset by that, of course, but as I got older I accepted it as the only reasonable explanation, though a part of me has always been fascinated by mythical creatures—in no small part due to that incident.”

He drains the last of his hot chocolate, head tipped back, and then smacks his lips and grins, raising the Peter Cushing finger once more. “And _then_ …”

“And then…?” Barclay indulges, smiling.

Joseph’s eyes are bright, almost sparkling, as much from the memory as from having an attentive audience. “In college, I was roommates with an entomologist, and he had a very peculiar subject he was researching. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Blue Ghost Firefly, Barclay?”

“No,” Barclay says, raising his eyebrows.

“ _Phausis reticulata_ —it’s an incredibly rare species of firefly that’s only found in one locale on earth: the southern Appalachian mountains, with most sightings in North Carolina state parks. Since the females are flightless, their range is very localized, and they’re sensitive to light so they’re only found in remote locations, and they also need warm, moist habitats, so their numbers go down during droughts. But the most unusual thing about them is that they don’t _flicker_ like normal fireflies; instead they have a steady glow that lasts up to about a minute, and as the name suggests, their color is more of a bluish-green than the yellow that people are accustomed to.”

Joseph sets his cup to one side and folds his hands in his lap. “ _They_ were what my roommate was studying, and one weekend he invited me to come along with him to see them during their brief mating season, and…there they were.” He grins wider than Barclay has ever seen him grin before, and for a moment, Joseph looks about twenty years younger just from sheer glee. “They were the fairies from my childhood—the very same ones!”

Barclay can’t hold back a delighted laugh, infected by his enthusiasm. “No kiddin’! But weren’t you disappointed that they weren’t what you thought they were? I mean, they weren’t fairies after all, just something normal.”

“Not at all,” Joseph says, and he leans back in the wooden deck chair and brings the blanket up to his shoulders, snuggling in, cast in warm hues from the golden porch lights and a smile still lingering on his handsome face. He breathes in the chilled air like he’s savoring the smell of coffee in the morning. “You see, just because they weren’t something _supernatural_ , that doesn’t mean that what I witnessed as a child was anything less magical, rare, or—or _special_. Practically _no one_ outside of rural Appalachia knows those fireflies even _exist_. Heck, coelacanths weren’t rediscovered until 1938, and it took European scientists _ages_ to accept that the platypus wasn’t some taxidermied hoax. So who’s to say that things like Bigfoot can’t be real? Sure, most of the time it’s just some guy in a gorilla costume, but what if—what if, maybe, it’s something we can’t even _begin_ to fathom? What if it’s something _special_ , and, and _new_ , and we just let it slip through our fingers because our imaginations are too small and our fear of looking foolish too large to even entertain the possibility?” He sighs, taking a moment to let some of his fervor settle. “And that’s why I joined the Unexplained Phenomena division—because I want the fullest possible answer I can find to these questions, come hell or high water.”

Barclay, a.k.a. Mr. Bigfoot Himself, sits there a moment, his cup of cocoa almost empty and rapidly cooling between his hands, wondering if he put too much marshmallow in his cup because there’s a weird, giddy energy coursing through his bloodstream, and his head is spinning.

Special. _Special_ , huh? That sure is several steps back from “dangerous,” which is what Joseph had slung around when he’d first arrived in Kepler, but there was no hiding that kind of passion in his eyes, which he’s usually so careful to keep cloaked behind a layer of professional distance. It could really only mean one thing.

If he wasn’t before, Joseph was telling the truth now.

… _Special_ , huh?

“I-I can see why they hired you,” Barclay croaks at last with a nervous smile, and downs the rest of the hot chocolate.

Joseph laughs softly, with a self-depreciating edge. “I know, it’s a lot. But you have to be a special sort of crazy to work there, as we like to say.”

“You’re not crazy!” Barclay blurts out, and fails to fight off a blush when Joseph blinks in surprise at him, now wearing a matching pink tinge of his own.

“I-I’m not? That’s—well, from the reception I’ve been getting here, that’s…a nice change to hear.”

“No, it’s just—listen,” Barclay huffs, turning his eyes to the snow-dusted planks at the edge of the porch. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Joseph. Hell, you have a more mature outlook than most people I’ve met. But this is _West Virginia_ , and—” He looks back up, catching Joseph’s eyes and setting his expression into something serious. “Now, I’m not saying any of these cryptids or whatever are _real_ , that’s—that’s a whole ’nother ballpark, and really more your job than mine, but you gotta understand, with these people here—they were raised with a certain _outlook_ on things, okay? Even if, hypothetically, someone were to see something they couldn’t explain, they’d never tell a _soul_ for fear of looking foolish. Why do you think Ned’s shop gets all the flack it does from town hall? So it’s not—” He sighs. “—it’s not necessarily that people think _you’re_ strange, it’s that they don’t want _other people_ to think that _they’re_ strange, see? They’re protecting themselves.”

Joseph turns his words over carefully, then he nods. “That _does_ explain a few things…such as why _you_ were so reluctant to share your experience with me,” he says, with a bit of a knowing smirk.

Barclay rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, smartass.”

He chuckles. “But, I see what you mean. I suppose there’s been a, uh, a difference in cultural perspective that I’ve been neglecting to take into account.” He smiles softly. “But…I appreciate your vote of confidence all the same, Barclay.”

Barclay smiles back cautiously. “Sure,” he says, and for that moment, time really _does_ hold its breath for three…long…seconds, and then it exhales, and Barclay is blinking back to himself and feeling that sugary giddiness coursing down his arms and realizing that Joseph is still looking at him with warm, brown eyes. He points at Joseph’s cup. “Can—Can I get you a refill?”

“Please,” Joseph replies, handing the cup back to him, and Barclay tries to ignore how their fingertips just barely brush together, but time is hiccupping back to that moment again and again, and when it skips ahead, Barclay is suddenly in the kitchen, realizing he has no memory of walking there.

Instead he’s remembering Joseph’s wide, youthful smile, and the earnest tone in his voice as he called him _special_.

“Shit,” he whispers, setting the mugs on the counter with a shaky _ka-clonk_.

He can’t tell Mama about this. Oh god, he can’t _ever_ tell Mama about this. He digs his hands through his hair.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he says again, with feeling.

* * *

Agent Stern holds out his badge to Aubrey, who inspects it with laser-eye focus, and says, sheepishly, “I have been researching, well, for some time now, several disappearances that have been attributed to—and this is gonna sound silly, and I understand you wanting to check my credentials because it probably sounds kind of, kind of goofy, but they are attributed to…the Sasquatch?”

Barclay’s heart shudders, and he drops all the teacups on the floor.

Well, this is just—this is just the fucking nightmare scenario. As the fed yammers on, Barclay scrambles to pick up the teacups, but it almost feels like he’s in a dream with a monster at his back, and as fast as he’s trying to escape the room, he feels slow as molasses and like the monster’s breath is huffing right behind his ear.

And Mama still isn’t back yet.

If only she were here, she’d know what to do. She’d know how to get rid of this fucking _fed_.

* * *

“Please, you can call me Joseph,” he says pleasantly. Then, cheekily, “‘Agent’ was my father.”

* * *

_The Lamplighter_ is a staple of Kepler society, though no one is really sure _how_ , because Kirby only prints about seventy-five issues per week and leaves tiny stacks of five in brochure stands at various establishments around town. Apparently he makes back the loss through the online version’s ad revenue.

81% of the broadsheet features made-up stories of cryptid sightings in Kepler. Another 12% shills the Cryptonomica. 5% includes blurbs of upcoming local events. The last 2% is the horoscope section.

Almost no one reads the horoscopes. Those who do tend to take the unusually blunt and highly specific advice as a joke, chalking it up to Kirby’s millennial humor.

Kirby doesn’t write the horoscope section. It’s the only part of the paper he outsources.

Agent Stern, idly scratching a coin against a Super POP 100!!! scratch ticket, takes a sip of his coffee. Then he chokes and spits it out.

“Yo, you okay there, dude?” Jake Coolice says, looking up from his sports magazine.

Stern turns huge eyes on him. “I-I-I, I think I just won the lottery.”

“YO, WHAT?”

“ _WHAT?_ ” Aubrey echoes, catapulting over a lounge chair with a plate of French toast in one hand. “No way! Show me, show me, show me!”

Stern, in a remarkable display of either trust or stupidity, shows them his scratch ticket, and Aubrey and Jake lean over his shoulders to scrutinize the pictograms. Sure enough, at the top of the card in the three biggest squares, there are three big money bags revealed, promising a payout of $7.5 million.

“Holy _shit!_ ” Aubrey declares.

“Radical, dude!!” Jake says, clapping Stern’s shoulder in congratulations.

Stern starts laughing, and it rings loud throughout the whole lobby.

“What’s going on out here?” Barclay asks, walking out of the kitchen with his hairnet and apron still on, holding another plate of French toast.

“Stern just won the lottery!”

“ _What?_ ”

Stern is still laughing breathlessly. “I—you know, I-I never usually buy these, but—” He pulls out this week’s edition of _The Lamplighter_ from his back pants pocket. “—but-but my horoscope said to, and I thought, ‘What the hell, why not?’!” He gets to his feet with all the grace of a mermaid trying out legs for the first time. “I-I gotta call my mother!” He beams at them, overlooks the plate of French toast that Barclay sets on the table, grabs his scratch ticket, and practically bounds out of the lobby.

“Dang it, why does _he_ get all the luck?” Aubrey complains.

Barclay squints at _The Lamplighter_ that’s still on the table, wishing he had his reading glasses on him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t need them, because under Pisces, the font of the horoscope is much bigger than the others and simply reads: “Just trying to help. You know where to find me, B.”

Barclay puts two and two together and borrows Mama’s truck out to the Eastwood Campground & RV Park where one lonely Winnebago still sits.

When Indrid opens the door, Barclay says, “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Hello, Barclay. Come on in.”

Barclay barely fits inside the cramped Winnebago and is quick to sit down at the fold-out seating area.

“Want some eggnog?” Indrid offers.

“No thanks. Indrid, why are you helping Stern?”

“—you helping Stern? I’m not helping Stern, Barclay, I’m helping you and Kepler. Perhaps. It all depends on what the good agent decides in the next ten minutes.”

“What?”

Indrid smiles. “There’s a high probability that Agent Stern will quit his job now, since he won’t have to worry about money matters anymore if he continues living within his means. No job means no government agencies running around here. That would make things easier on all of us in the long run.”

“I guess? Indrid, since when do you write horoscopes for _The Lamplighter_?”

“—horoscopes for _The Lamplighter_?” Indrid gulps down a mouthful of warm eggnog. “Since always. I have to make a living somehow.”

Barclay looks skeptical. “That kid _pays_ you? With what, lint?”

Indrid shrugs and holds up a carton of nog. “In the only way that matters.” Suddenly, his face falls. “Oh, dear,” he murmurs.

“What’s wrong?”

Indrid sighs and crumples up about five different sketches, then rapidly starts scribbling another one. “It didn’t work. I’m sorry, Barclay.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, I’m afraid Agent Stern will still be lurking around Kepler for a while yet. He just found out his niece has leukemia.”

Something in Barclay goes cold. He’d spent years avoiding humans and getting into trouble before Mama found him and gave him a home at Amnesty Lodge, and seeing her collapsed on the floor of the Lodge just three days ago still haunts him. But at least she’s technically stable now, even if she’s still unconscious. He can’t begin to imagine what it must be like to watch a child go through something so much worse and indefinite. “Oh, jeez,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” Indrid agrees. “And naturally he’ll offer to pay the medical expenses and give the rest of it to his sister so she can take a furlough to care for the child. I suppose we can’t fault our resident agent for having a good heart.”

Barclay sighs, not sure what his head is doing, but it feels like a see-saw in a hurricane. “Well, thanks for trying,” he says, getting up in a crouch.

The pencil in Indrid’s hand suddenly scrapes loudly over the paper. “Ah. Hmm. Barclay?”

Barclay’s at the door but cranes his neck to look behind him. “Yeah?”

“You should know he’s a Scorpio.”

“…Okay?” Barclay says, confused.

* * *

Mama’s face is grim. “Well, Barclay, how long have you been sleeping with him?”

“ _What?!_ ” Barclay splutters, face turning red.

She keeps her arms folded. “Don’t play dumb with me, Barclay, I’ve known you too damn long to put up with your shit.”

“But…But Mama I _haven’t_ ,” he says, because it’s true, red as he is it’s still true. “Swear to God and Sylvain, Mama, _nothing’s_ happened. I _swear_.”

She eyes him over carefully and sighs, unfolding her arms, and she looks…apologetic. “You thought about it?” she asks.

He feels like he’s swallowed a frog. He knows he has to say something immediately, deny it outright, but he just…can’t. Duck’s complete inability to lie must be catching.

She sighs again, expression hardening back into The Leader of the Pine Guard. “You know it can’t happen, Barclay.”

“I know, Mama,” he says quietly.

“There’s forty-two other Sylphs under our protection here and you can’t jeopardize—”

“I know, Mama.”

“—their safety, let alone _yours_. He’s a fucking _fed_ for Christsakes, and if he finds out—”

“I _know_ , Mama, I know, I know.”

“—then that’ll be it. No more Amnesty Lodge,” she says. She gets up from her desk chair and comes over to him, reaches up, and thumps a big hand on his even bigger shoulder. “…I’m sorry, Barclay. For what it’s worth, if he weren’t a fed, you know I’d be happy for ya.”

He nods. He knows she’s not trying to be cruel, just practical.

“Now I know you’re a grown Sylph, you don’t need me nagging you about your personal life and all that, but…can I trust you not to be stupid about this?” Mama asks.

“…Yeah, I think so, Mama.”

* * *

“Please…Barclay…”

* * *

Global warming is a weird thing. It’s freaking _January_ and the low tonight is a balmy forty-two degrees. It almost went up to seventy at mid-day, and the snow has all but melted. On top of that, it’s supposed to go back to the twenties and thirties by the weekend, complete with a bucketful of more snow.

As bizarre a windfall as it is, Barclay decides he’ll take what he can get. Tonight’s a new moon, so he guilt-trips Mama into letting him take a night off as a reward for running the entire Lodge himself for two months straight. The timing’s far enough off from an Abomination appearance that it should be alright, and with the overcast moonless sky it should be dark enough that if anyone glimpses him, they’ll think he’s just a bear. It’s not like he’s gonna be doing cartwheels down Main Street or anything.

And after everything’s he’s had to deal with for the past five months, he’s been _itching_ to finally take off the illusion and just…be himself for a while.

Not that he _isn’t_ himself in his human guise, but you know. Sometimes you just need to feel the night breeze in your fur to feel at home in your own skin.

He takes Mama’s truck deep into the Monongahela to a small, secluded lake he likes. Duck’s mentioned that it’s a protected habitat for some special fish or what-have-you, which works out for him because that means there’s no tourists poking around for miles.

And when he takes off the hemp bracelet, it feels like a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a basement for months.

The lake—more a glorified pond, really—has foot-long puddle holes all over the surface of the ice, and when he experimentally punches a foot through the surface, his suspicions are confirmed: the strong sun from the day has warmed the water beneath the ice. He grins and steps in, chopping out a path. The water is still cold, wouldn’t be great for his squishier human form, but _damn_ if it doesn’t feel amazing just to get his fur wet. He does a few laps back and forth from the shore to a tiny island that’s basically just a big rock and a couple of trees. After a while, he goes to the island, shakes himself dry, and stretches out, just breathing in the night air and listening to the owls, digging his huge toes into the gritty dirt just for the hell of it.

His first mistake is closing his eyes.

A distant splashing wakes him from his nap, and he snorts awake, rubbing at his eyes. It’s still night, but only just—the sky and his surroundings are taking on the greyscale hues particular to twilight.

And there’s a rowboat on the lake.

It has the legally required lamp on the prow, and the man inside also has a flashlight, whose beam he is slowly dragging across the island’s shoreline. It lights on Barclay.

They stare at each other for a moment in stunned silence.

Barclay’s heart is pounding. His night vision is much better in his Sylph form, and he can see plain as day that it’s Stern in that boat.

Stern starts scrambling for a camera.

Barclay bolts for the water, smashes a hole through the ice, and dives under, swimming for his life.

His second mistake is that he left his bracelet in a nice, convenient-to-remember spot, which is under a rock right by the dock that Stern clearly took the boat from, and he obviously can’t go back there.

Barclay punches an exit hole out of the ice and heaves himself out of the water on the farthest shore from Stern he can manage. As he takes off into the woods, he hears a distant “ _Wait!_ ” and the sound of rapidly splashing oars still trying to catch up.

If he had the luxury of time, he would’ve carefully covered his tracks, but with it being so close to daybreak and being unable to get back to his bracelet, he just beelines for Mama’s truck and guns it back to the Lodge, awkwardly hunched in the driver’s seat with his knees mashed into the dashboard and getting lake water all over the upholstery. His massive hands are trembling.

Because his day couldn’t get any worse, Mama is at the check-in desk when he bursts into the Lodge. “Barclay, what in the—?!”

“ _Tell everyone I’m sick!_ ” he blurts, sprinting past her and ducking into his room, locking the door and catching his breath.

A moment later, he hears a knock, and the grind of the old lock turning as Mama lets herself in and re-locks the door behind her.

“Barclay, why the _hell_ are you not wearing your bracelet?”

“I had to leave it at the lake—it—Mama, Stern saw, he-he was there.”

Her face turns stony. “Aw, hell,” she breathes, and she digs her hand through her thick, graying hair. “…Okay, first things first, we gotta get your bracelet back, and we’ll deal with Stern when we have to. He doesn’t know it’s _you_ , right?”

This is why he loves her—she keeps a cool head even when he’s running in circles like a headless chicken. Even just being around her relative composure calms him. “No, no, ’course not,” he says. “I didn’t take it off in front of him or anything. I just…fell asleep and he kinda stumbled upon me—from a distance,” he adds at her alarmed look. “Didn’t get too close or nothin’, I just bolted soon as I could.”

“Okay…all right,” she says, “we can work with that, I think. Where’s the lake?”

“Duck knows it, we could get him to go get it for me.”

“Well he sure as hell can’t go there alone; we both know he can’t lie for shit and if he runs into that agent—”

“You could go with him?”

She shakes her head. “Naw, I gotta stay here. These old bones aren’t exactly in the right shape for early morning hikes in the middle of nowhere when I have a lodge to run. It’ll look suspicious.”

“Aubrey?”

“Call her,” Mama says.

Barclay goes to the courtesy phone by his bedside table and carefully punches in the numbers to Aubrey’s room.

It takes a few rings before she answers, clearly still half-asleep, “Hmnh, what the fuuuck…”

“Aubrey, it’s me, I’m so sorry to wake you but it’s an emergency,” Barclay babbles.

“Huh, Barclay? Dude, it’s like…six A.M.”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry, but listen, you have to, uh, go get Duck and tell him to get my bracelet from that fish lake he was telling me about. It’s under a rock by the dock. It’s—fuck—Stern’s out there and he fucking saw me, Aubrey, it’s _bad_.”

“ _WHAT?!_ ” Aubrey shouts down the phone. “Barclay, what did you _do?!_ ”

“I’ll explain later!”

“What was _Stern_ doing out there?!”

“How should _I_ know?!”

“Okay. Okay,” Aubrey says, taking a deep breath, “Okay, errr, but what if he’s still out there?”

“Duck can tell him he’s there for—for forest inspection or something.”

“Duck can’t lie for _shit_ , Barclay!”

“That’s why _you’re_ going with him!”

“Okay, yeah, guess I’ll—I’ll do that.”

Barclay breathes. “Thanks, Aubrey, I owe you one. Um, I left the—the keys in Mama’s truck, if you wanna—”

“Will do!” she says, and hangs up.

He rubs both hands over his eyes, just…breathing for a moment, keenly aware of Mama’s eyes still on him. “…I’m sorry, Mama,” he murmurs.

He hears her sigh. “Yeah, well…” she starts, then steps closer and taps a fist against his bicep. “I can’t really blame ya for wanting to just be yourself for a while. I know that’s a lot to ask a person, to wear a mask day in and day out with no end in sight, y’know? It ain’t fair on you or anyone here. …We’ll just have to be even more careful from here on out, unfortunately.”

He looks down at her, blinking back tears. She smiles back at him, squeezes his elbow, and lets herself out, locking the door behind her.

* * *

“…I’d like it if you called me Joe,” he breathes against his mouth.

* * *

A week. A _week_. It’s been a fucking week and she’s _still_ not awake yet.

Barclay scrapes at a pizza stone, struggling to get stubborn bits of crust off.

There’s been a pall over the entire Lodge since Mama came back and was immediately rushed off to St. Francis Medical Center. No one’s in the lobby—everyone’s been mostly sticking to their own rooms or visiting each other’s, just so they wouldn’t have to talk in hushed voices all the time like it’s a fucking funeral. Every now and then someone comes up and asks him if he’s heard anything, and every time he has to tell them that there’s been no change in her condition: stable, but still comatose.

It’s getting real old.

“—clay? Mr. Barclay?”

Barclay starts and looks to the serving window.

And then there’s this other fucking problem in a suit.

“Yeah, uh—sorry, kinda just—what can I help you with, Agent Stern?” Barclay says, wiping his hands on his apron and coming over from the sink.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I was wondering…if I could have some tea?” Stern asks quietly.

“Got a preference?”

Stern sighs, and Barclay notices that he has shadows under his eyes, too. “Oh, anything will do,” Stern says.

Barclay realizes, in a foggy, exhausted way, that it’s quite late, and he remembers that Stern just found out his niece has leukemia a few days ago, too. “Chamomile it is, then,” he says.

“Thank you,” Stern says gratefully, and shuffles off to melt into one of the coziest armchairs in front of the fireplace.

When the kettle boils, Barclay plunks a tea bag into a mug and douses it. He debates pulling down another mug for himself, then decides against it and carries Stern’s tea into the lobby. Stern is massaging his forehead in the telltale sign of a tension headache.

“Thank you,” Stern says again, immediately reaching for the mug after Barclay sets it on a coaster.

“Wait,” Barclay says on reflex, because the idiot had just been about to gulp down near-boiling water. “Let it cool a minute first, you’ll burn your tongue.”

“Ah—yes, thank you, you’re right.” Stern sets the tea aside with a quick, polite smile at him, then goes back to staring into the fireplace.

Barclay just nods and starts to shuffle back to the kitchen.

“Um, Mr. Barclay…” Stern pipes up.

Barclay lifts his eyes to the ceiling and resists the urge to visibly sigh before he turns back around and says, “You don’t have to keep on with the ‘mister,’ Agent Stern, it’s just Barclay.”

“Right, of course,” Stern says, with another reflexive, exhausted smile. “Barclay, I just—I know I haven’t been here long, and I don’t really understand the circumstances, but…well, you have my best wishes on her recovery, that’s all.”

Barclay nods. “I appreciate it, Agent Stern,” he says, and heads back to the kitchen.

But with every step he takes forward, his head feels like it keeps ticking back like a broken clock, and when he sets eyes on the still-scalding kettle on the stove, all the broken seconds come whooshing back, and he abruptly feels guilty.

Here the man had just been trying to show basic human kindness to a perfect stranger, all while lost in his own troubles with no one to share them with. Barclay had the whole Lodge to worry with him over Mama, but as far as he knew, the only other people here who knew about Stern’s niece were…a psychic hermit out in the woods, and himself. And Barclay wasn’t even supposed to know about that.

He sighs and pulls down another mug, pours himself some tea, and heads out into the lounge to sit in the armchair next to Stern’s.

Stern eyes him curiously, cradling his mug between his hands like it’s a precious jewel.

“It’s been a long week, huh?” Barclay says at last, and he doesn’t need psychic vision or third eyes or whatever to detect the waves of gratitude rolling off of Stern just to have some company.

He can survive one hour talking to the guy. It’s the least he can do.

* * *

“Barclay, can I ask you a personal question?” Stern asks, leaning on the lip of the counter that sticks out from the kitchen serving window.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…sure?” Barclay says, eyeing him carefully as he flips a pancake over. Stern’s been, well, _friendlier_ since their impromptu outing a week ago, and he’s still not really sure what to do about it.

“When’s your birthday?”

Barclay blinks. “Huh? Why?”

Stern shrugs, smiling lightly. “Just curious.”

The funny thing is, Barclay doesn’t actually _know_ his birth date—not as it corresponds to an Earth calendar, because he has no clue what the conversion factor between a Sylvan calendar and Earth’s is. When he was new to Earth, and once he’d figured out its calendar, he’d just picked the easiest date to remember—January 1st.

However, as he’d acclimated more to Earth society and traded out various fake identities over the years, he’d decided to re-pick a date that would be a little more realistically random and less like the easiest, fastest answer someone who is lying would come up with.

“February 29th,” he answers.

Stern’s eyes light up. “Oh, you’re a leapling!”

“Aha, yep, I’m…I _suuure_ am,” Barclay says.

“So how old would that make you, then?”

Barclay slides the pancake onto a plate and pours the batter to start another one. “Oh, jeez, I kinda stopped counting after twenty-one, honestly—somewhere around forty, give or take?” At least, that was approximately what this guise’s appearance was, somewhere in that vague range between thirty-five and forty-five.

“Wow, you’re looking spritely for one-hundred and sixty,” Stern says, smiling.

The funnier thing is, Stern doesn’t realize just how close to the mark he really is. On average, Sylphs both live much longer and age much slower than humans do—hell, _Indrid’s_ been on Earth for well over a century, and he was already full grown when he crossed over, so who even knows how old _he_ is, and he’s still perfectly mobile and sharp-witted with no signs of slowing down anytime soon. Barclay knows he’s much younger than Indrid, at least, and he isn’t sure of the exact year he came to Earth himself, but it was possibly somewhere in the fifties.

Yet as far as he’s concerned, his age is completely relative. He’s technically older than Mama, but that’s never stopped him from feeling like he’s her big doofus of a son sometimes.

“ _You know what I meant,_ ” he snips back at Stern, who just chuckles. He flips the pancake over.

“Well then, for a ten-year-old, you’re doing quite well for yourself—already a hotel manager and an accomplished chef. You’ll be running your own chain by twenty.”

Barclay squints, trying to decipher the math in vain. “Am I…meant to be insulted by that, or…?”

Stern reddens, and he barks a short, embarrassed laugh. “I—no, I didn’t mean the—I meant the—you know what, never mind, I’ll just…just take my pancakes and leave before I stick this foot even more in my mouth, thank you.”

“Uhhhhhhhh, okaaay,” Barclay says, more disturbed by the mental image _that_ choice of idiom conjures than anything. He slides the second pancake on top of the other one and hands the plate over to Stern. “Um, enjoy your breakfast?”

“Yesthankyou,” Stern says, taking the plate and point-blank _speed-walking_ over to the farthest table in the dining area.

Well…that was a thing. Barclay shakes his head and pours more batter into the pan.

“ _Woooooow,_ ” says Aubrey, and Barclay jumps as she abruptly pokes her head in view of the serving window. She leans her entire torso in through the window, her eyes wide as she whispers, “Barclay, was Stern just fucking _flirting_ with you?!”

“ _What?!_ ” Barclay yelps, almost flinging the batter up into the ceiling. “Wh-Where do you get _that_ —”

“Oh, my dude,” she says, reaching out a tiny hand to pat his arm. “He definitely, totally was. Badly, I might add. I heard everything.”

“He-He just asked my _birthday_ , how is that—”

“ _Uh-huh_ , and isn’t that a weird thing to just _randomly_ ask your hotel chef-slash-manager? It’s called the _soft approach_ , Barclay, it’s where you lead with an easy personal question before you ask them out—trust me, I’ve been on both ends of that one.”

“Oh…Oh, god,” Barclay says, eyes widening, “That actually makes a horrible amount of sense, oh _no_.” Stern must’ve _really_ misinterpreted that outing more than he thought. He tries to dig his hand through his hair only to encounter the hairnet; instead he lets the arm fall and clenches his fist. “Shit, I’m gonna have to…to do something about that.”

She quirks her head. “You gonna turn him down?”

“Obviously,” he says, “I mean, it’s not like I wanna hurt the guy or anything, and you know, me being _the exact guy he’s trying to track down_ and all would make that…pretty fucked-up.”

“True, true,” she says, eyeing him thoughtfully for a moment. “Hey, do you need me to go tell him for you? I’m pretty good at telling guys to back off.”

He sighs with a smile. “No, I’ll handle it, Aubrey. I’m a big boy.”

“Okay! Hey, you might wanna check that flapjack, by the way.”

“ _Shit!_ ” he hisses, turning to rescue the smoking pancake from total destruction.

* * *

Today is the day. Today _has_ to be the day. He has to break up with Joe.

He doesn’t _want_ to break up with Joe, because being with Joe makes Barclay feel like everything’s _right_ and like there’s an extra sparkle to look forward to every day and that he truly _belongs_ here on Earth, but it’s the right thing to do.

That or he could finally tell him that he’s Bigfoot, but that just can’t happen—not without explaining everything about Amnesty Lodge and the portal to Sylvain and the Abominations and—well, he just doesn’t have the right to make that decision for everyone and put them _all_ in jeopardy. But he can’t just keep lying to Joe either.

They have a date to continue their _X-Files_ marathon tonight. It’s not a season finale or anything, so it’s not like they’ll be missing out on a lot. But he still wants it to be…nice, or as nice as you can make a break-up be, so with Dani’s permission he picks out a bouquet from the tulips sprouting out in the front garden, showers, trims his beard, and paces in his room for eight or nine minutes, rehearsing how he’s going to break it to him.

“Joe, I have something important to tell you—” Yes, that’s a good, strong start.

“I really, _really_ like you, but for reasons I can’t explain we just can’t see each other anymore—” Okay that sounds objectively terrible, and also vague.

Maybe he should just… _make up_ a reason? Because it’s not like he can tell Joe the _real_ reason, and just breaking up without _any_ explanation whatsoever would be pretty shitty.

“Joe, I like you, but I don’t…I don’t…” Okay, no, he can’t fake not-loving— _not-LIKE-liking_ him even if his life depends on it, apparently. He digs his hand through his hair, instantly messing up the nice, neat bun he’d piled it all into.

Maybe he could say that Mama didn’t approve? Which wouldn’t be wrong, but he didn’t want to just lay all the blame on her, plus he’s a full grown adult and that would give off major Norman Bates vibes.

Maybe he could say it was their jobs? After all, when Joe’s assignment eventually wraps up in Kepler, he’ll be reassigned to somewhere else, and Barclay…Barclay could never leave Amnesty Lodge. Not when it took so long to finally find a home here. And maybe it’s better to let things fizzle out before they get in too deep.

…Yeah. Yeah, that’ll do. It’s near enough to the truth that it doesn’t feel like a lie. And just going by the way his heart tightens in his chest, maybe there’s more truth in it than he’d thought.

Because even if things somehow worked out okay, even if he told Joe he was Bigfoot and Joe decided to keep all of Amnesty secret for him, Joe would still have to leave.

And maybe it’s better to get the heartbreak over and done with sooner than later.

He eyes his bedside clock and realizes that he’s seven minutes late.

Takes a deep breath.

Fixes his hair.

Picks up the bouquet waiting patiently on the dresser.

Heads out and down the hall to Joe’s room, which was strategically assigned to be as far as possible from everyone else’s rooms.

And knocks, his hand shaking.

“Come in,” he hears distantly, takes another deep breath, and opens the door.

“Joe—” he starts, and his entire train of thought jumps the tracks and shatters on the floor, with no survivors.

Joe’s stretched out on the bed, with his legs leisurely crossed and arms behind his head, looking for all the world like he woke up on cloud nine in nothing but his boxer briefs. There’s two tiny tea candles glowing on each bedside table. Barclay dimly registers that there’s music playing from a laptop that’s been carefully placed on top of the dresser.

He blindly tries to turn the lock on the door and misses by a mile.

Tries again.

Tries again.

Heart in his throat, he finally takes his eyes off Joe so he can slam the lock in place and then lurches forward like some Frankenstein’s Monster.

Joe looks up at him softly, as though Barclay’s some adorable harmless kitten curled up in the sun and not a hulking alien monstrosity towering over him. “For a second there, I was worried you weren’t coming.”

Barclay swallows, realizes that the crooning lyrics swimming out from the laptop are actually Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does It Better,” and turns an entirely new shade of red that can only be seen by Mantis Shrimp.

And he realizes he’s still holding the flowers in a deathgrip.

Maybe the flowers hadn’t been a good idea, all things considered. Or maybe they were the best idea he’d ever had.

He holds them up. “Do you. Want these?” he croaks.

Joe smiles, places a hand on his trembling fist. “They’re lovely, Barclay.” He gently squeezes Barclay’s knuckles.

At that touch, time forks violently like lightning, one branch thudding harmlessly into the waiting arms of a lightning rod and dispersing into the earth—a bright electron kiss that’s there, gone, and forgotten, with only an afterimage of light and heat lingering in the mind’s eye.

The other branch hits a tree and catches the whole dang forest on fire.

“Great,” Barclay squeaks.

Joe’s smile widens, and Barclay has two final coherent thoughts:

  1. He already knows _exactly_ what that mouth tastes like, and he _desperately_ wants to try out the rest, like _right now_.
  2. Whatever vague, silly issues he was having before are now a problem for _Future_ Barclay.



And he tosses the bouquet away and crawls on top of Joe, who laughs the same way he did the day he won the lottery.

* * *

“I figured,” Joe says after a long moment, and the even, bland tone of his voice cuts sharp into Barclay’s ribs. He doesn’t even look surprised to see them. “I figured it was you.”

It’s the last thing Barclay would’ve expected from himself, because this whole night has been one adrenaline rush after the other, but somehow everything just…falls away. His mind goes blank.

It’s been two months since he’s seen Joe. Two long, sleepless months alone on Mrs. Pierson’s hide-a-bed. Barclay registers that Aubrey and Duck are talking to Joe, but he can’t think of a single thing to say himself. And he can see that Joe, despite all airs of professional distance and reserve, has a bitterness in his eyes that clouds their usual spark.

He’s avoiding looking at Barclay, but Barclay can feel every word piercing into him.

“You’ve known about all this, right?”

It’s been two months, and Joe looks thinner—maybe ten pounds, give or take. Looks more like he’s been living on coffee than proper food. And that ain’t right. That just doesn’t sit right at all.

“And you kept it from me—why? I could have helped, I could have done something, we could have stopped—we could have stopped Ned, the mountain, everything.”

The bitterness is leaking into his voice now, the frustration, the hurt. Joe’s only been in Kepler six months, only known them all a proper four, only been his lover for just over a _week_ , and he’s holding his temper well, but the thin note of _hurt_ still breathes through loud and clear to Barclay’s ears, sure as a hammer slamming into his eardrum. He feels like he’s dissolving from the toes up.

And then Aubrey mentions Mama, and Joe squeezes his eyes shut before he sighs and reopens them, and there are noticeable bags hanging under them. Barclay’s not sure how many times a human heart is supposed to break but it feels like one too many. “I suspected you all knew more than you were letting on. And…because I got to know you, I assumed you weren’t using that information for any ill intent. I just…I just wish you’d told me, that’s all.”

This was always how it was going to end. He knew that. He’s always known that. He should’ve _known_ that, but it still leaves him hollow and aching.

Joe shakes his head. “I apologize, I know that—I know that apparently we’re under time constraints, it’s just this has been my entire life and there’s—I feel like there’s just so much that I don’t know and I mean—” Joe sighs again, and then he looks up, and he fixes his eyes on Barclay, and there’s a cataclysm of different emotions there—betrayal, hurt, a spike of anger _daring_ him to try to explain it all, and above all, an empty loneliness that resonates within Barclay’s own chest because that’s what it’s been all these months for him, too. “Barclay, I didn’t—I didn’t expect this from _you_.”

And that’s what does it.

Hell, it’s the end of the world. They have _minutes_ to get to the archway, where they’re all probably about to die as The Quell bursts through to the Earth and swallows it whole.

If not now, then when? He’s already lost Joe. He’s got nothing left to lose now.

Barclay turns to his friends and sees them all staring back at him expectantly, and it’s almost funny now, honestly. As his mother used to say to him, long long ago in Sylvain, after one catastrophe after another seemed to land on their doorstep every other day, “Sometimes all you can do is laugh, because otherwise you’ll just cry.” So he shrugs, says, “Eh, what the fuck,” and takes off his bracelet, taking on his true form.

Joe’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back, and then both hands come up to cover his mouth.

And time flickers on a coin toss.

* * *

It’s been two months since he’s seen Joe.

* * *

It’s been a month since he’s seen Joe.

* * *

It’s been—

* * *

Barclay curls his arms around his knees and wishes he had an immediate excuse to leave the hot spring.

“—it was from a distance, I know, but it’s incredible because there’s never been any record of it _swimming_ before and even just _knowing_ that it can gives us a whole new range of possible biomes it can live in and honestly I’d never put much thought to the ‘aquatic ape’ theory before but this raises so many possibilities like is it a long distance swimmer? Or is it just in short bursts? I doubt it can manage ocean currents all that well but possibly—”

For the first three days after The Lake Incident, Barclay had barely seen Stern at all around the Lodge; the federal agent had been busy trying to gather as much data as possible from the lake and keeping vigil in case Bigfoot came back. But apparently he must’ve gotten _some_ sort of clearance to talk about it from his superiors, because he’d cornered Barclay in the hot springs and just started talking his ear off about the experience with all the giddy excitement of a boy talking about his favorite video game.

“—and when I showed the video to Ranger Newton he said it was just a black bear but since when does a black bear _run_ on two feet? I’ve sent it off to a number of biologists to get a second opinion so we’ll have to wait on their analyses to be sure, plus the castings I managed to get from the shoreline and—”

Barclay’s stomach turns, and he sinks lower into the waters, dipping his beard under and letting his loosened hair fan out around him. He debates just dunking completely under and staying there.

Stern sighs happily and stretches his arms behind his head, luxuriating in the water. “But the best part is that my superiors have agreed to extend my stay here! If I hadn’t turned up anything new in the next week or so, they were gonna reassign me, so the timing’s particularly serendipitous.”

Barclay sighs into the water, bubbles clouding his mouth. Great. Just great. So now _he’s_ responsible for prolonging everyone’s endangerment here, just because he wanted to get out and be himself for _one_ night. Wonderful. He couldn’t feel more stupid if he tried.

“…Barclay? Is everything all right? You seem…off.”

Barclay lifts his torso out of the water with a sigh and leans against the backrest. “Yeah, it’s just…guess I’m still getting over this cold,” he says with a shrug.

“Still? Goodness, and here I was just blabbering away without asking how you’ve been, I’m sorry,” Stern says sheepishly. “Guess I got carried away.”

“Eh, it’s all right,” Barclay says listlessly. “So, what brought you to that lake any—”

Suddenly he feels a touch to his forehead, and he blinks in surprise and looks to Stern, who has his other hand on his own forehead.

“Hmm, you do feel a bit warm,” Stern diagnoses.

“We’re…We’re in a _hot spring_ , Agent Stern,” Barclay replies. “Of course I’m warm.”

“Please, you can call me Joseph,” he says pleasantly, taking his hand off Barclay’s forehead. Then, cheekily, “‘Agent’ was my father.”

Barclay snorts and rolls his eyes in spite of himself.

“As for the lake, it was just a tip I got from someone I was interviewing from the forest service. She mentioned that some nights her trail cameras pick up glimpses of what looks like a larger than usual black bear in that area, so I thought it was worth a looksee,” Stern says.

Barclay feels his heart stop, and he shudders. _Someone else_ has seen him? Often enough to make a note of it? Well, guess he can’t go back to that lake ever again. He’ll have to talk with Duck and see if he knows this other ranger—maybe it was that woman he worked with?—and see if he can get his hands on whatever photo evidence she might have before Stern does.

Stern frowns. “You know, you really _aren’t_ looking well. We should get out anyway, it’s been at least fifteen minutes. Don’t want you overheating, come on,” Stern says, tapping Barclay’s bicep and heaving himself out of the water.

Barclay sighs, takes another couple of seconds to try to enjoy the heat of the water in silence, then gets out, murmuring a quiet thanks to Stern when he holds out a towel for him. They enter the Lodge and pad down the carpeted hallways.

“Be sure you’re drinking enough fluids,” Stern says. “Apple juice does wonders, I’ve found. And tea of course, but you know that already.”

Barclay huffs a tired chuckle. “I will, thanks.”

“And make sure you aren’t overworking yourself—you’ll only prolong the cold if you keep on the way you do. I’m sure Jake or Dani would be able to handle more of the Lodge duties until you’re back on your feet properly.”

Barclay smiles at the stab of irony. If only Stern knew that taking a night off was _precisely_ the root of his stress right now. “I’ll ask them.” He puts a hand on the doorknob to his room.

“And—Barclay?” Stern says, biting his lip.

Barclay raises an eyebrow at him.

Stern drags his fingers through his dark, wet hair. “I mean, I’m no chef or anything, but even I can heat up a can of soup if you need it. Just…give a holler?”

Barclay smiles again, and feels a touch warmer for it. “I appreciate it, Joseph,” he says.

Stern smiles back, and wishes him a good night.

Later, when Barclay is showering off the spring water, he hears a knock at his door, and when he goes to check, he finds a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup waiting for him just outside his room.

“Huh,” he says, a warmth he hadn’t felt all night in the hot springs suddenly burbling up in his chest.

* * *

“Got any plans for Valentine’s Day, Joe?”

Joe’s eyes flicker over the lobby. No one’s paying them any mind. “Well, I suppose I do now, don’t I?” he murmurs confidentially.

Barclay tries to stop smiling, he really does. “Good answer.”

* * *

When Duck applies the alcohol to the goat-man’s wound, it _screams_ , the blood-curdling scream of petrified _agony_ , and Barclay’s skin breaks out in goosebumps as he holds it down on the table.

And then, without warning, the goat-man faints. Barclay and Duck breathe a sigh of relief.

A chair directly above them skids across the floor, and they hear the sound of footsteps moving _fast_.

Great! Great. The icing on the cake right there, someone’s coming to check on the monster they kidnapped.

Duck’s pale and shaking, cursing under his breath, but he’s more qualified to treat this thing than Barclay is, so Barclay stutters, “Uh, uh, I-I-I got this? I guess keep sewing him up?” and bolts for the stairs, slamming the cellar door behind him just in time to see Agent Stern burst out of the front door to Amnesty Lodge.

Because that’s just the cherry on top of this weird, shitty cake.

“I heard someone _screaming!_ ” Stern says, his face pale. “It sounded like it was right below—” He bee-lines for the cellar door.

Barclay shifts so he’s directly in the way. “No! No, you don’t wanna go down there, it’s—”

Stern gives him a look that Barclay’s never seen in all the two months Stern’s lived here so far—it’s impatient, hard, and heated, and for a moment, Barclay’s taken aback. “Get _out_ of the way, Barclay! Someone’s hurt, and I can’t just—”

“It was me!” Barclay blurts, and Stern’s righteous warpath crashes to a halt as he blinks in surprise and then warps into concern.

“Y- _You?_ Are you all r—?”

“It’s-It’s so full of spiders down there, Agent Stern, you wouldn’t believe, I was—I was cleaning, and uh—” Barclay slaps a hand over his shoulder. “—big huge one just, it just got me real bad, stings a lot, I-I think it might be poisonous, it’s, uh, it’s throbbing? Uh—”

“ _What?!_ ” Stern yelps, moving forward. “Here, let me see—”

“No!!” Barclay yelps back, reflexively slapping his hand away. “It’s—uh—I should—hospital!”

Stern raises his hands as if trying to calm a startled animal. “Okay, okay, let’s just—I’ll take you, we’ll take my car, okay?”

“Okay, okay, thanks, oooowwww,” Barclay says, clutching his shoulder and mentally apologizing to Duck for abandoning him to whatever fate befalls him as he gets in Stern’s nondescript little black government car.

The ride down the winding mountainside is tense and silent, with Stern driving a thin balance between speed and caution. Barclay abruptly remembers that Duck’s friend Rick Dannon died just yesterday while navigating Route 66.

“C-Careful,” he says, “These switchbacks are—even locals take ’em too fast sometimes.”

Stern just nods and slows the car, and although safer, it now gives Barclay time to realize how deep a hole he’s burying himself in because now he has to convince the hospital staff to play along with his fake spider bite.

When they pull up to the emergency entrance, Barclay says, “Ow, thanks, you can—you can head back to the Lodge, I’ll get a ride back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stern says, his face fixed in his most serious, sincere expression. “You go on in, I’ll get a parking space.”

Barclay resists the urge to sigh in frustration at this damn knight-in-shining-armor Boy Scout and instead says, “Okay, thanks” and gets out of the car.

Once he’s in the door, he hoofs it to the reception desk and says, “Linda! I have a non-medical emergency, you have to help me!”

Linda looks up from her romance novel. “Oh, Barclay! What’s the matter? Is Madeleine still doing all right?”

“Yes she’s fine, _Linda hide me,_ ” he hisses under his breath.

Linda Pierson has been the receptionist for St. Francis Medical Center for at least fifteen years, and she knows Barclay very, very well. With Mama and all the Pine Guard members he’s had to drag through the hospital doors over the years, she’s joked that Barclay’s her favorite customer. Linda is also an older woman in her sixties with nothing much else to do besides work, and tonight looks like it’s a slow night. Her eyes gleam behind her glasses, and she shuts her novel.

“Come on over to the right here,” she says, and Barclay rushes through the door. She ushers him down the hall and into a break room. “What’s the scoop?” she says immediately.

He digs his hand through his hair. “Okay, this is gonna sound _really_ weird, but you have to play along with me: we have to pretend I got a bad spider bite on my shoulder for the agent that comes in.”

“Agent?” she says, perking up. “What agent? Barclay, are you running from the law?”

“Yes! I mean no! No, Linda, it’s nothing _illegal,_ it’s just _awkward_. I told him I have a bad spider bite on my shoulder so he brought me here.”

“Well, why on earth did you tell him that?”

He sighs. “It’s honestly too much to explain.”

She folds her arms. “Uh-huh, like we haven’t heard _that_ one from you before, Mr. Cobb.”

He smiles sheepishly. “Hey, at least no one’s actually injured this time?”

She huffs theatrically. “Well, what’s in it for me, then, sonny?”

They’ve played this particular game countless times before, and Barclay knows the lines by heart. With utmost reverence, he takes her hand, gets down on one knee, and looks deep into her eyes. “Linda…will you do me the honor…of allowing me to fix your back deck? Again,” he says solemnly.

Her eyes are twinkling. “Hmm, I dunno, it hasn’t needed much fixin’ lately.”

“And a pie! Sweet, homemade apple pie, Linda, I’d like to bake you one,” he says earnestly. “Please? Nothing would make me a happier man on this earth.”

She giggles. “Well, all right, since you asked so nicely,” she says, patting his cheek. “Madeleine’s sure lucky to have a boy as sweet as you around.”

He springs back to his feet and smiles. “Thanks, Linda.”

“Yes, yes,” she says, “You just hang tight back here for a few minutes until I come get you. I’ll find you a Band-Aid to put on.”

He nods and sits down gingerly in an ancient lounge chair that groans under his weight. He twiddles his thumbs and checks his watch, noting with surprise how late it is.

Linda suddenly bursts back into the break room, and he startles, wincing as the chair creaks ominously.

“ _Barclay,_ ” she gasps, grinning something fierce. “ _Barclay,_ you didn’t say he was _handsome!_ ”

“He—what?” he says, blinking.

“Oh, _you,_ ” she says, coming forward and lightly slapping his arm. “I see how it is, you coy young devil. You’re too shy to say things all direct-like so you go and make this elaborate ruse—‘Oh, Mr. Handsome Secret Agent, please help me!’ Couldn’t have done better myself, I must say.”

“I-I—what?”

She smirks. “He was very worried about you, you know. Very polite, too.”

“I—okay??” he says, because honestly, at this point in the day with all the shit he’s had to conceal so far, this is the one with the least amount of troubling consequences if it goes wrong. “Yeah, okay, Linda, you got me.”

To his surprise, her eyes soften, and she smiles. “Well, I thought I’d never see the day,” she says, lightly pinching his cheek. “It’s about darn time you got some springtime in your life, young man. Lord knows you deserve it, sweet as you are.” She pats his shoulder and says, confidentially, “If you want my advice, easiest thing to do? Just make him one of your pies. Best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and all that, and yours are the best in Pocahontas County, mark my words.”

He blushes, more at the compliment to his baking than anything else, though he’s equally baffled by the wave of motherly pride she’s giving off in regards to his entirely fictional love life. “…Thanks, Linda. I’ll…I’ll do that.”

She squeezes his shoulder and says, “Let’s get you a Band-Aid.”

She does him one better and, after applying the hospital-grade plaster, insists that he press an ice pack to the shoulder to make it look convincingly reddened, never mind that it was going to be under his shirt anyway.

“Now, be sure to thank your young man _properly_ , Barclay,” she advises, putting the ice pack back in the break room’s fridge-freezer. “Treat him to coffee for helping you out, at least.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, though now that she’s brought it up, it’s not a bad idea—it wouldn’t hurt to keep Stern away from the Lodge a while longer, if it’ll give Duck more time to work on that goat-man in peace.

She leads him back out to the waiting area and announces, with a smile, “Here he is! All back in one piece, as promised.”

Stern looks up from a months-old magazine with obvious relief. “That was fast.”

“It felt worse than it actually was,” Barclay says sheepishly, and, because he can feel Linda’s gaze weighing on him, adds, “I’m sorry for dragging you out here like this—”

“Oh, it was no trouble.”

“—can I make it up to you? Do you wanna get a coffee? My treat,” he barrels on, because if he stops to think too hard about it he’s just gonna scramble it somehow.

Stern blinks in surprise, and Barclay notices that in proper light, his eyes are an unusually pale brown, like beech wood. “I—well, it’s a bit late for coffee—”

“Right! Right, yeah, obviously, sorry, of course it is—”

“—but you know, what the hell, why not,” Stern says quickly, smiling. “It’s not like I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Oh! Okay,” says Barclay, not as relieved as he could be, because now he has to wrack his brains for what’s actually _open_ this late. “Um, you’ll—you’ll have to drive us again, sorry.”

“It’s really not a problem,” Stern says with a polite chuckle.

“Cool,” Barclay says, like a total moron.

They stand there.

“Um, anyway—”

“Shall we—?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s—”

They both chuckle self-consciously and start towards the exit. Out of the corner of his eye, Barclay sees Linda give him two thumbs up. He sighs and wonders what he’s getting himself into.

“So, hmm, coffee this time of night,” Barclay murmurs aloud once they’re in the car. Stern waits patiently, hands on the wheel. “The donut place would definitely be closed by now… Not sure about the ski lodge or Wolf Ember Grill… The only place I can really think of that’s open basically all night is The Little Dipper, but it’s not really a _coffee_ place.”

Stern shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be coffee.”

Frankly, the _last_ thing Barclay needs around Stern is alcohol; the risk of letting something slip is just…he can’t take that risk. “You know what, let’s try the ski lodge. It’s the holiday season, so it’s bound to be open later for the tourists.”

“Sounds good,” Stern says, and he pulls them out of the parking lot.

The Mt. Kepler Ski Trails Park Lodge isn’t ‘full’ by any definition of the word, but when they step inside the lobby, there’s a family of four and a young couple still lounging in front of the fireplaces. Eugene kind of gives them a look like ‘Seriously? It’s fifteen minutes before I close shop, what are you doing here?’ but he welcomes them in all the same, probably counting profit as profit—they need all the business they can get in Kepler, after all.

They order their coffees and settle in some cushy chairs in front of the windows. The lights are still glowing on one of the ski slopes, and they can see a lone figure zigzagging down the powder, but everything else around the mountain is dark. Kepler’s riverside sparkles festively in the valley bowl below.

It’d almost be nice if not for the full moon hanging in the sky, reminding Barclay that while he’s cozying up to Agent Stern, the rest of the Pine Guard is trying to defeat the Abominations without him.

“So,” Barclay starts, because he may as well keep playing the role he’s assigned himself tonight, “you’ve been in Kepler for a couple of months now, Agent Stern. What do you think of it?”

Stern smiles politely, sipping his café au lait. “It’s interesting. I’ve seen my share of small towns across this country, but none quite like this one.”

A safe, PR answer if he’s ever heard one. Barclay raises an eyebrow. “That right?”

Stern looks out the window, drumming his fingers on his mug. “Yes,” he decides a long moment later, “It’s different for a number of reasons. See, normally when a town as small as this makes it big in the paranormal world, they try to capitalize on it. You know, Bigfoot t-shirts, alien parades, ghost tours, the whole nine yards.”

Barclay takes a big gulp of coffee.

“And sure,” Stern continues, “Mr. Chicane has his Cryptonomica, but the rest of Kepler seems…reluctant to embrace it. Almost as though they’d rather sweep it all under the rug. It’s a bit perplexing, especially when it seems to be struggling, tourism-wise.”

“Some people don’t want Kepler to turn into a…a, I dunno, sort of hokey…” Barclay struggles, trying to think of anything to turn the topic off of _cryptids_. He waves a hand to the window. “I mean, look at it out there! All lit up and pretty, they want it to be like…like a place to come home to, I guess. A home away from home for people.”

Stern smiles around his coffee mug. “It _is_ a bit like that, isn’t it?” he agrees. “To be honest, when I first got here, I thought I’d wandered onto the set of a Hallmark movie by mistake. Quaint little town trying to make ends meet, nice locals, an out-of-towner who’s a bit of a fish out of water—” He points to himself. “—and well, you know, that sort of thing.” His eyes flicker in Barclay’s direction before looking back out the window. “I didn’t think that towns like this really existed anymore.”

“It’s a special place alright,” Barclay says, looking back down at twinkling Kepler, nestled like a sleeping cub under a layer of snow. “Took me years to find this place, but once I did, I never wanted to be anywhere else.”

“Where are you from originally, then?”

Barclay mentally marks a strike against himself and takes a sip of his coffee. “Oregon. You?”

“Oh, I’ve lived all over the place. Dad was in the military, so we were never settled in one place long enough to really call anywhere ‘home.’ My mother and sister are in Ohio, though,” he says, and there’s a visible wince in his eyes that Barclay deftly interprets to mean that Stern does _not_ like Ohio. Not that he can blame him.

Barclay waffles with the idea of pressing more on his mother and sister, if only so he can ask after Stern’s niece, but Stern suddenly sighs and sets his mug to the side, then rests his elbows on his knees, folds his hands together, and rests his chin atop his knuckles.

He stares directly at Barclay.

Barclay stares back, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

“Barclay, I’m going to ask you something, and I’d appreciate it if you answer me honestly,” Stern says, and his eyes are hard, as unwavering as they were back at the Lodge, and Barclay gulps.

“Uhhhh, sure?” he manages, his mouth inexplicably dry. “Shoot.”

Stern waits, his eyes boring into him, and Barclay feels like he’s one wobbly step away from tumbling off a tightrope.

“Why were you in the woods with Ned Chicane the night he filmed his Bigfoot video?” Stern says, and then—

Time.

Just.

_Stops._

* * *

“Well, guess it could be worse,” Mama says, folding her arms as they watch Agent Stern barrel out of Amnesty Lodge, still in the process of putting his pea coat on as he rushes to the scene of the sinkhole. “Far as suits go, at least ours isn’t a self-absorbed asshole.”

“Y-Yeah, guess so,” Barclay agrees, and he doesn’t want to think about _Agent Fucking Stern_ right now.

* * *

“Joe, _please_ —”

* * *

—and he doesn’t want to think about _Agent Fucking Stern_ right now—

* * *

“Well, do you want to watch it with me later?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

And his face just _lights up_ —

* * *

—and he doesn’t want to think about—

* * *

Five o’clock shadow darkens Joseph’s usually clean-shaven chin, and although he’s snoring, it’s soft enough Barclay knows he wouldn’t hear it if he were asleep himself. The laptop’s muted, but _The X-Files_ DVD menu screen is still on, casting blue-white ghostly light across them in the dark room. The popcorn bowl is between them, down to the kernels.

Barclay glances at his watch and winces. He ought to go back to his room, but does he wake him up? Does he just leave? Write a note? Getting into one-on-one midnight TV binges with humans is not something he’s ever exactly _done_ before; both Mama and Thacker were always too… _driven_ to really see the night as anything other than more potential working hours, and somehow none of the human media he’s consumed over the years has addressed this bit of unknown etiquette.

Cautiously, Barclay starts shifting off the bed. He gets one foot on the floor. Just as he sits up, Joseph stirs and wordlessly mumbles. Barclay looks over his shoulder to see him rubbing at his eyes.

“Sorry,” Barclay whispers, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Hrmmm,” Joseph says, glancing at his bedside clock. “Oh jesus, is it that late?”

“Yeah,” Barclay says, “We should go to bed.”

Joseph’s hand flounders around and manages to turn on the bedside lamp, flooding the room in a honey-golden glow. He blinks foggily at Barclay, then yawns. “Guess so,” he agrees, stretching like a sleepy cat, and then just stares at him.

Barclay smiles and puts his other foot on the floor.

“Hey,” Joseph says, sitting up.

“Hm?”

“…Goodnight,” Joseph says, and faceplants back into his pillow.

Barclay chuckles. “Goodnight, Joseph,” he says, standing up.

Joseph looks like he’s rapidly falling back to sleep, so Barclay gently grabs his socked foot and shakes it, which startles him enough that he flails awake.

“Don’t go back to sleep yet,” Barclay says, “Go brush your teeth first.”

Joseph looks like a disgruntled teenager who’s being repeatedly woken up for school, and Barclay can’t help smirking at him.

“Alright, alright,” Joseph yawns, swinging his feet off the bed. “Have a good night, Barclay.”

“You too. See you in the morning,” Barclay says, and he steps out of Joseph’s room.

At that exact moment down the hall, Dani steps out of Aubrey’s room.

They stare at each other.

“Hello, Dani.”

“Hello, Barclay.”

Unfortunately, he has no choice but to go past her if he wants to make it back to his own room, so he walks evenly down the hall as she continues watching him, her eyes widening in realization as he gets closer.

“Dani, you like cherries in your pancakes, don’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she says.

“Excellent,” he says with a smile. “Have a good night, Dani.”

“Yeah, you too,” she says, still watching him as he goes past.

And boy, he hopes she doesn’t tell Mama about this.

* * *

—and he doesn’t _want_ —

* * *

He takes a deep breath.

And lets it out.

“I wasn’t,” he lies.

Stern sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, but you _were_ , Barclay. Do you wanna know how I know?”

He doesn’t need to know, because he knows the answer is _Ned Fucking Chicane_.

At his silence, Stern reaches into an inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a flashdrive. “This was given to me by Ned’s assistant Kirby in October. It contains the full, uncut footage from that night. And I’ve spent most of my nights analyzing this, Barclay, back to front, inside and out. I could replay it from memory in my sleep.”

The most frightening part of all this is that Stern doesn’t sound angry or upset. He just sounds _calm_ , and that’s the worst part. It means he’s _sure_.

“And there was a question I had from the beginning about this footage that Ned refused to answer. Namely: that there is plainly another subject that he is talking to off-screen in this, and I wanted to know who that was. Now, I’d just arrived in Kepler, so I didn’t know everyone yet, but it’s become clear to me that the other voice on here belongs to you, Barclay. Of that I have no doubt.”

Stern places the flashdrive back in his pocket, and he rests his chin back on his folded hands.

“So we’ll try this again, and please be honest this time—why were you in the woods with Ned Chicane the night he filmed his Bigfoot video?”

Barclay’s heart is pounding, and he takes a sip of his coffee to stall for time. He has to think of something—something that’s _true_ , something that’ll convince this agent who’s apparently a lot more careful and observant than he lets on.

Barclay smiles. “I dunno what you expect me to say, Agent Stern—what, that I’m Bigfoot?”

Stern smiles politely back at him. “Of course not,” he demurs. “I just want to have the facts of my case straight.”

“Well, to start with, I wasn’t _with_ Ned Chicane that night. I sort of just bumped into him,” he says, because it’s true. “That was the first night I formally met him, actually.”

“That’s certainly how it sounded on the recording,” Stern agrees. He pulls out a pen and a hand-sized notebook from another pocket and writes a note. “And what were you doing out in the woods by yourself that time of night?”

“I was…looking for something,” Barclay says carefully, because that was also true.

Stern raises his eyebrows. “What were you looking for in the dark?”

Barclay sighs and clutches his mug, staring down at the remaining dribble and wishing there were more. His first instinct is to say “buried treasure,” but he knows that won’t fly. He can’t say “monsters,” because even though that’s true, it’s a whole can of worms.

Instead he lands on something that could _almost_ be true: “Well…I was looking for some _one_ , actually.”

Stern frowns. “You’re—has someone gone missing?”

“A long time ago,” Barclay confirms. “Almost six years. An old friend of mine named Thacker just…disappeared one night. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.” That last bit is a lie, because Thacker is currently in their cellar behind a net of Sylvan thread, but _at the time_ , he’d had no idea where he was.

Stern looks alarmed. “What? You said his name is—?”

“Thacker. Arlo Thacker.”

Stern scribbles this down quickly, a furrow deepening across his brow. “Why has no one mentioned this to me? I’m specifically here _because of_ mysterious disappearances.”

Barclay shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

Stern eyes him. “And yet, you were looking for him,” he points out. “In the middle of the night.”

Barclay scratches the back of his neck. “I-I know, it sounds…silly, but—” And he reminds himself that he’s _not_ Duck Newton, he can and will bullshit this, come on. “—but I thought since _he’d_ disappeared in the middle of the night around the same time of year, maybe…I dunno, something would turn up if I looked around the same time? Yeah, I know, it sounds stupid saying it out loud, but…”

Stern quirks his head. “I wouldn’t say that. There’s a certain degree of logic to it.” He clicks his pen a few times. “What do _you_ believe happened to Thacker?”

And here’s the tricky part—if he can sell this well, he might just be able to get away with it. And he thinks about what this agent, this _particular_ agent, who’s currently looking at him with even, non-judgmental eyes, would believe, and he comes up with an answer.

Barclay sighs and bites his lip. “Okay, you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” he says quietly, and Stern leans forward, and Barclay now _knows_ he has him, because he isn’t even blinking, still as glass. “But…I think it was aliens.”

“Aliens,” Stern repeats, hushed.

Barclay _almost_ feels bad, because his eyes are lit up like Christmas trees. “Yeah.”

To his credit, even though he’s clearly excited about this, Stern’s voice remains calm and professional. “What makes you believe he was abducted by aliens?”

Barclay drains the rest of his coffee. “See, thing is, Thacker used to be a sort of…professional outdoorsman, kinda? He led expeditions into the Monongahela all the time, and he knew these woods even better than Duck does now. He couldn’t’ve just gotten _lost_ , and even if he had, we should’ve found something by now. He knew how to survive out there if he had to. And he loved this forest more than anything, I can’t see why he would ever just pack up and leave. For a man like that to just up and vanish without a trace? I can’t think of what else it could be.”

Stern takes a moment to carefully and clearly write the word ‘Aliens?’ in his notebook. “Did you file a missing persons report?”

“Yeah, of course we did,” Barclay says, although Mama hadn’t filed it until months after the fact.

“Can you describe him for me?”

“Well, when I last saw him, he was an older dude, early sixties I think. Pretty tan, kind of has that weathered, sun-beaten look about him. Sort of a mountain man beard. Glasses. Always dressed like he was about to go for a hike.”

Agent Stern dutifully writes all this down. “I’ll see if I can turn up anything,” he says as he’s writing, “I have access to resources civilians don’t have. The police might be willing to reopen the case if I nudge them.”

“Thanks,” Barclay says, without much energy.

Stern looks up. “And as for the…creature that you saw that night—how would you describe it?”

Well, so much for steering him off course. “Uh, big?” Barclay says. “It was sort of…hectic, that night, can’t say I got the _best_ look at it, seeing as I was kinda focused on trying not to get eaten by some sort of huge, possibly feral bobcat or whatever.”

“Understandable,” Stern says, flipping to another page and writing. “Anything other than…big?”

“Furry? Two-legged? Sorry, that’s probably the best I got.”

“It’s quite helpful actually, thank you,” Stern says, clicking his pen off. He puts his chin back on a fist. “So…if Ned Chicane is to be believed, then what you saw that night was Bigfoot.”

“Look, _I’m_ not saying that’s what that thing was,” Barclay says quickly. “Ned can say whatever the hell he wants, but I’m not ready to lay my money on something like that so quick.”

Stern smiles, and it actually looks real, amused even. “So you’re saying that you’ll believe in aliens, but not in _Bigfoot?_ ”

“Well, yeah,” Barclay says, “Statistically speaking, aliens have to exist. The universe is too big for them not to be out there.” He is one himself, after all, so he would know. “But I mean, an entire species of _giant ape_ all over North America that we somehow keep missing? Not so much as a skeleton to be found? There’s only so many places you can hide eight-foot tall primates, Agent Stern.”

Stern smiles again, back to polite. “Agree to disagree.” He shuts his notebook and puts it and the pen back in his pocket, leaning back in his chair. His eyes are still on Barclay, and though most of the harshness in them has faded, it’s not gone entirely.

“One last question,” he says, and he tilts his head. “And I suppose…no, you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to, but I’d just like to know… Why haven’t you told me _any_ of this until now?”

Barclay sighs and looks out the window. “Well, Agent Stern, I could tell you, but I don’t think you’d like the answer.”

“I’m more thick-skinned than I look.”

“It’s because I didn’t trust you,” Barclay says frankly, and looks back to him, curious to see his reaction.

Stern, surprisingly, chuckles. “That’s fair,” he says, and he smiles. “Well, I hope I’ll be able to earn your trust in my time here, Barclay.”

Barclay…doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods and looks back to Kepler. He sees Stern’s reflection in the window do the same.

And he thinks to himself, _‘That was too fucking close.’_

* * *

Within the murmuring mob loitering outside the archway to Sylvain, he meets Joe’s eyes. In the stark, white glow of the moonlight, he looks scared, as scared as _he_ feels. But mostly he looks _worried_ , and swarming in his eyes are thousands of questions, above all ringing out, _‘Tell me this isn’t real. This isn’t true, is it? Tell me you didn’t hide all this from me.’_

And he can’t answer, because a clunky food truck crunches over the pine needles and snow, and out steps _Ned Fucking Chicane_ , probably here to make things worse.

* * *

“That one’s empty,” Joe says, pointing at a crate, fussing and jittery with nerves. “Let’s—lemme help you carr—”

Barclay lifts the entire crate easily with one furry hand and holds it up over his head.

Joe stares up at him, bug-eyed and speechless, mouth slightly ajar.

It’s not a bad look on him, honestly.

Barclay smiles a bit sheepishly and says, “We’ll talk—we’ll talk about this later, okay? We’re gonna have a big talk later. Bu-But like _later._ ”

Joe just nods a few too many times and points to another crate.

* * *

Joseph is frowning at this week’s edition of _The Lamplighter_ , and Barclay is just curious enough as to what’s making such a powerful furrow in his brow that he asks, “What’s up? Did it just declare Bigfoot’s a hoax or something?”

Joseph looks up, forehead smoothing out as he accepts the proffered tea with a smile. “Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just strange… _The Lamplighter_ hasn’t included a horoscope section for about a month now. I tried asking Kirby about it a few weeks ago, but he says the man who writes them hasn’t been home. Thought maybe he’d taken an impromptu vacation, but it’s been long enough now that maybe we should consider filing a missing persons report…” He gnaws at the end of his red pen and sighs. “Not great to have someone go missing on my watch, especially since it’s been so recent since my Bigfoot sighting. But I suppose it helps strengthen my case here.”

Barclay frowns. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound great,” he agrees, and silently curses Indrid for flying off to who-knows-where. Admittedly, it was more his own damn fault for going on a midnight stroll and not Indrid’s, but still…the timing could’ve been better. “But how do you know it wasn’t just Kirby or the guy not wanting to do the horoscope section anymore? It’s not like anyone reads them. It would open up more space for proper stories or advertising or whatever.”

Joseph gives him a dry, unamused look. “ **I** read them.”

Barclay smirks at him. “You’re about the only one who does, nerd.”

“Hey, I _won the lottery_ because of that horoscope, Barclay! And I never win anything!”

“What are you two yelling about over there?” Aubrey calls over from her table, where she’s practicing card tricks.

“Stern’s upset that _The Lamplighter_ isn’t doing horoscopes anymore,” Barclay says.

“I’m not _upset_.”

“Jeez, is that all? I can do a card reading if you want—it’s not, like, the same as a horoscope with the star charts and all, but newspapers never do those the proper way anyway,” she says, scooping together her cards and holding them up. “It’s just a normal deck so it’ll only be the minor arcana, but you know.”

“You can do that?” Barclay says, raising his eyebrows.

She snorts. “I mean, _yeah_. Barclay, look at me,” she says, gesturing at herself with a flourish, dressed as she always is in that sort of goth punk-y look. “Do you think I went through high school _without_ learning tarot? Come on.” She gets up from her table and joins Joseph at his. “So, you in, secret agent man?”

“Sure, sounds fun,” Joseph says, shooting _some_ kind of smug look at Barclay, who just rolls his eyes and folds his arms, watching.

Aubrey starts shuffling the deck with a showman’s flair. “For _centuries_ , the art of interpreting the hand of fate has been passed down from mystic to mystic, mother to daughter, master to disciple… I am the _culmination_ of this ancient knowledge, and you, good sir—” She places the deck in front of Joseph, who looks, in a word, _delighted_. “—you now must _concentrate_ on what it is you wish to know from the cards. Concentrate! And when you are ready, please split the deck into three stacks.”

He thinks for a moment, then splits the deck into three even stacks.

“Now, draw a card from any stack of your choosing, and place it to your right. This card will represent your past.”

Joseph draws from the middle stack and sets it facedown to his right.

“Now select a new card, and it shall represent your present fortune.”

He draws another from the left stack and places it in the middle.

“And at last…draw from the remaining stack and it shall represent the murky waters of what is to come!”

He draws from the right and places it to his left.

“So, which moment of your destiny would you like to hear first?” Aubrey asks.

“Oh, past to future is fine,” Joseph replies.

Aubrey nods solemnly and flips the past card over. “OOOooooo,” she says, immediately dropping her Performance Voice, “The Ace of Hearts! Aces always signify beginnings, and hearts—well, _cups_ in an official deck—they always deal with emotions and relationships.” She waggles her eyebrows at him. “You got something you’re not telling us, Agent Stern?”

Joseph’s cheeks dust over with pink. “Oh, well, I-I’m not so sure about that,” he says, chuckling.

“It’s interesting that it’s in the past, though. Usually ‘beginning’ cards are more optimistic in the present or future,” Aubrey says thoughtfully, then shrugs. “Oh well, beginnings have to happen sometime. So in your past, you’ve had the budding of new emotions and connections put in motion. As for your present—”

She flips the card.

* * *

Joe sighs. “So. So _Bigfoot_ , huh?” he says, and sits down in the chair next to the hospital bed, dropping his messenger bag on the floor.

Barclay glances at the open door. “Joe…is now really the time for this?”

He shrugs, and his leg is just _bouncing_ with agitation. “Now seems the perfect time to me, it’s not like we’re busy, and it’s been _months_ and all—”

“Could you get the door first?” Barclay murmurs.

“Ah. Yeah, good idea,” Joe says, getting up and going to close it. He sighs again, apparently reluctant to turn around.

Barclay stares at his back. He at least looks more put-together than yesterday, clothes fresh and pressed, hair washed and combed neatly, bandage neatly stuck on his forehead. “You’re upset,” Barclay diagnoses.

Joe turns around and starts pacing. “I mean, of _course_ I’m upset, but I’m also relieved, and-and I’m glad everyone’s all right, that _you’re_ all right, but Barclay—”

“I broke three ribs, Joe,” he says evenly.

“—all these _months_ , it’s just—”

“Joe, _please_ , can you sit down for this?” Barclay says, gesturing to the chair. “I really don’t have the energy to keep up with you like that.”

Joe staggers into the chair and resumes bouncing his leg, staring right at him. “I mean, _obviously_ you wouldn’t tell me right at the start, that I understand, but not even—not even when we were—”

“ _Joe,_ ” he says, sighing, then regrets it because sighing hurts a lot, actually.

“Just—were you _ever_ going to tell me, Barclay? Before-Before all this happened, I mean. That’s what I want to know,” Joe says. His leg is still jittering, and there’s a sense of desperation and intensity in his eyes. “If yesterday hadn’t hap—hell, if the _mountain_ hadn’t happened, would you have ever told me?”

“I don’t know, Joe,” he says quietly.

He purses his lips together, and his eyes harden. “All right,” he says, and stands up.

“Joe, it wasn’t just _me_ , you know that, right?” Barclay pleads. “It was all of Amnesty, and-and Sylvain, and…and just a whole _mess_ of people. If I told you, I’d’ve put them _all_ at risk, and I had no right to do that. Not all on my own.”

Joe is still just standing there, but after a moment, he nods. “Okay,” he says, “and what if it _was_ just you—would you have told me, then?”

Barclay stares up at him, and he can’t separate this man from the same one he’d held in his arms for a handful of nights before it all went to shit. The same one who’d opened the door for all of them to save the world, despite having no real reason to believe in any of them.

“If I’d had that option, I would’ve,” he says easily, because it’s true.

Joe lets out an enormous sigh and folds back into the chair, head hanging down, almost like a hot air balloon deflating. “Thank god,” he murmurs, after a moment.

Barclay smiles a little. “Guess I can’t blame you for feeling like that,” he says, “I know it’s like…a lot.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” Joe says, sticking his head back up, and unfortunately, he has his Business Expression on, and for a second Barclay feels the same pinch of dread he’d felt at the ski lodge months ago. Joe reaches into the messenger bag and pulls out a stack of manila folders, dropping them on Barclay’s lap. “Explain these, please.”

Barclay opens the first one and finds a black-and-white photo of a familiar human face, albeit a blurry one since it’s been enlarged. “Ah,” he says, grimacing. He’d never liked that one; the nose was too sloppy and the mouth was kind of creepy.

“You know him,” Joe says, not lightly.

Barclay opens another one, and yep, sure enough, there he is again. “Some of these aren’t my best looks, okay,” he replies.

“These—your _what?_ ” Joe says, eyebrows lifting.

Barclay lifts his wrist, which has his hemp bracelet tied around it, and gestures at his face with his other hand. “This isn’t my first disguise, you know. I’ve had a bunch of others, especially when I first got here. I was pretty stupid when I was younger, so I kept getting caught, and I ended up needing lots of new disguises.” He pats the stack of files. “These are all just me, probably.”

“Y-You?! _All_ of them?!” Joe says, grabbing the stack and flipping through them. “Barclay, there’s like _thirty_ people in here, most of them dating back to the fifties!”

“Sounds about right.”

Joe pauses and stares at him. “How…How _old_ are you, really?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Barclay says. “Sylphs don’t age at the same rate humans do. And our calendar is different, so I don’t know how to convert it to Earth years. But I’ve been here a while.”

Joe quickly shuffles through the folders again and pulls one out, shoving the photo in his face. “Even this one??”

The yellowing color of the photograph and the flower child aesthetic of the clothes date it easily to the sixties, and the woman in the photograph has super long brown hair going down to her waist and a crooked smile. She’s wearing a necklace with an orange crystal on it. “Oh yeah, think I went to Woodstock in that one,” Barclay says.

“… _Huh,_ ” Joe says thoughtfully, staring at the photograph, his brow furrowed. “So you can just…?”

“Yeah. It’s illusion magic, not, like…shapeshifting or whatever, that’s more complicated I think. It’s kind of like putting on a new shell—inside’s still the same, even if the outside looks different. Like…hermit crabs, I guess? That’s how it feels, anyway. Some fit better than others.”

“Huh,” Joe says again. He trails a finger down the spines of the stacked folders. “There’s a few women in here.”

“Didn’t see the harm in varying it up occasionally,” Barclay says with a smile. “Plus it’d be a bit, you know, _suspicious_ if it were just dudes all the time. Some clever snoop might notice a thing like that.”

Joe gives him a dry look. “As opposed to noticing a seventy to thirty percent ratio?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Barclay replies just as dryly, because of course Joe would notice something like that.

Joe rests his chin on his fist and looks at him for a moment, expression softening into simple curiosity. “So…so, forgive me if this sounds awkward, but…what’s the whole… _situation_ of that, then, with you?”

“Oh, Joe, it’s a whole _thing,_ ” Barclay says tiredly. “I need, like, a PowerPoint or something to explain it all.”

Joe chuckles. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Let’s save it for when I’m out of here.”

“For sure,” Joe agrees.

“Just—yeah, short version is it’s different from how humans see it, and no two Sylvans will explain it the same way because nobody can really come to a consensus on it, so it’s just…varied, I guess, the whole concept of it. But if I had to use human terms, specifically for _me_ , I guess it’s just…fluid, sort of? Still sounds wrong, honestly, but close enough.”

“Don’t worry about it—was just curious,” Joe says. He taps his fingers on top of the files. “Guess that’s something we sort of have in common, then.”

“Yeah, a bit.”

They smile at each other for a moment, and the quiet of Kepler filters in through the sunny window that’s cracked open. Joe sighs and stretches, folding his hands behind his head.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear you haven’t been murdering dozens of innocent people for the past few decades,” he says.

Barclay’s face twists. “ _Jesus_ , Joe, of course not. Like, I’m no saint, I’ve done what I’ve had to do to protect myself and Kepler, but I’m not some bloodthirsty _monster_. You know that.”

He smiles, his eyes warming. “I do. I’ve known ever since I watched you carry that tiny little turtle across the road.”

Barclay blushes at the memory and looks away, scratching at his neck. “Yeah, well…”

Joe quirks his head. “And you can apparently just chuck me like a sack of potatoes if you wanted, but the thought never once crossed your mind. You could’ve gotten rid of me easily.”

Barclay frowns, not enjoying the thought. “I suppose.”

He watches a butterfly float across the window, then blinks as he feels Joe’s hand cover his own. When he looks back, Joe’s eyes are downcast, fixed on their hands, and a small frown crosses his mouth.

“…I’m sorry,” Joe says after a moment, “I know I must’ve put you in a very awkward position these past several months, to have made you feel unsafe in your own home. Obviously…that wasn’t my intention, but—”

“Oh, _Joe,_ ” Barclay says, turning over his hand so he can hold his properly, smiling. “Hell, I’m sorry, too. It was—It was admittedly pretty shitty of me to get in a relationship with you with a lie that big hanging over my head, but I guess I just, you know, liked you too much. Or something.”

Joe snorts, smiling back. “Yeah, well…me too.” He squeezes Barclay’s hand, and Barclay squeezes back.

* * *

“Huh,” she says, brow furrowing. “The Jack of Spades. Okay, this one’s a bit of thinker…see, in a proper tarot deck, this would either be a Page of Swords or a Knight of Swords, and those mean two COMPLETELY different things. Hang on—DANI?” she yells.

Dani looks up from her book at the front desk. “YEAH?”

“DANI, CAN YOU GET MY TAROT BOOK FROM MY ROOM?”

“WHICH ONE?”

“THE GREEN ONE WITH THE TREE ON IT.”

“OKAY,” Dani says, “BARCLAY, CAN YOU WATCH THE DESK?”

“IT’S NOT GOING ANYWHERE,” Barclay replies, waving her off. It’s not like they get many people phoning here anyway—most of them are art people asking for Mama.

Dani takes off at a sprint for Aubrey’s room.

The door to Mama’s office opens. “WHAT ARE Y’ALL YELLING ABOUT IN HERE?”

“NOTHING,” all three of them yell back.

“WELL KEEP IT DOWN, WE STILL HAVE GUESTS, YOU KNOW,” she says, then goes back into her office.

Dani comes dashing back with the book. “Is it—Is it the right one?”

Aubrey smiles as she takes it. “Yep! Thanks so much, Dani.”

“No problem!” Dani chirps, bumping her elbow into Aubrey’s shoulder with a smile before heading back to the front desk.

Aubrey grins in her general direction for a moment, then turns to the book. “Okaaay, let’s see here,” she says, flipping through and reading the first relevant entry. “Right, okay, so—The Page of Swords has the attribute of ‘The Spy,’ and it signifies having keen observation while concealing your own true nature. It’s a pretty cool-headed card; it shows a talent for keeping secrets and keeping your head in the face of danger. Well, that’s pretty useful, actually.”

She briefly makes eye contact with Barclay, who shrugs almost imperceptibly.

“And as for the Knight—” She grimaces and makes a noise best described as the verbal equivalent of tugging nervously at one’s shirt collar. “—Okay, so…its attribute is ‘The _Berserker,_ ’ which is a bit concerning. And it signifies…wrath and fanaticism, um, and an addiction to action as opposed to thought. But…on the bright side, it could also mean courage?”

“Those really are two _very_ different things,” Joseph says, sounding as perplexed as she does.

She hums in thought, tapping first on the Ace of Hearts, then on the Jack of Spades, apparently trying to connect them. “So, I think it means that in your present, since the Jack of Spades is kind of a twofold card, that you will soon face a situation where you have to choose how to react—whether to keep your cool or lose your head—and if it’s tied to your past fortune, it might be pretty emotional? So, um, keep that in mind, I guess?”

Joseph just nods, and they all look with trepidation at the remaining card. Aubrey, very carefully, flips it over, and then her face just _lights up_.

“AW, SICK!” she says triumphantly. “Two of Hearts!!!”

Joseph smiles. “And what does that mean?”

She points at the Ace of Hearts, still grinning. “It means what you got going on _there_ is gonna work out _juuuust_ fine.”

Joseph turns the color of mashed cherries, but he’s smiling even wider now. “Well, that’s, that’s, that’s great to hear! Um, not that it’s—well, thank you Aubrey, um—um, Barclay, do you wanna give it a go?” he asks, gesturing down at the cards and looking up brightly.

Barclay’s heart squeezes in his chest, and for reasons he can’t explain, he almost feels dizzy. “Nah, I’ll pass,” he says weakly, “It’s not really my thing, to be honest.” He points at the forgotten teacup and says, “You should drink that before it gets too cold.”

“Oh, yes! Thank you,” he says, reaching for cup and taking a sip, and his expression settles into one of deep, profound contentment. “Perfect as always,” he declares with a small smile at Barclay.

“Great!” Barclay says, borderlining on a squeak, and turns quickly to Aubrey. “Aubrey, can I get you anything while I’m up?”

To his surprise, she’s staring at her deck of cards with her brow furrowed. “Huh…” she says, and then she abruptly stands up. “Actually! I’m going to go to the bathroom.” She locks eyes on Barclay. “Barclay, come with me!” she says, and grabs his arm.

“ _What?!_ ” Barclay barks, but the tiny Puerto Rican woman is already dragging him across the lounge.

She thankfully does _not_ pull him into the bathroom, but instead into a storage closet, which is almost worse because Barclay barely fits in there as it is.

“Aubrey, what the _hell?_ ” he says.

She brandishes the cards in his face. “Barclay, I don’t know how I did it, but I think I used magic on these cards! I think that fortune was real!”

His eyes widen. “You can do that?!”

“Apparently?” she says, “I checked the cards with my third eye, and they _definitely_ have a weird aura around them that wasn’t there before. Maybe as I’m getting better at magic, I can just…do that now?”

“That—okay.” Barclay sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, I guess that’s a thing now, whatever. Just be careful with that stuff.”

When he looks at her again, her mismatched-colored eyes are gleaming. “Sooo…” she says, and he gets a nauseous twinge in the pit of his stomach. “Agent Stern, huh? That’s definitely a surprise.”

“Well, if your fortunes are true, I guess I’m happy for him,” Barclay says flatly.

“Oh come _on_ , Barclay,” she says, “I was there when he was straight-up _flirting_ with you that one time, and he clearly still likes you—who else could the fortune mean if not you? And all evidence shows that you haven’t turned him down gently yet for some reason, which, why _haven’t_ you, by the way?”

He sighs and digs his hand through his hair. “He…hasn’t asked yet.”

“ _Dude_ , then what’s this thing I heard from Dani about you leaving his room at like three A.M.?”

“That wasn’t _anything_ ,” he says, and makes a mental note to make potato pancakes with extra garlic for a _week_ to teach Dani a lesson. “We literally just watched _X-Files_ and fell asleep, that’s _it_.”

She sighs. “Oh, my dear, sweet Bigfoot,” she says, placing a hand on his bicep because that’s as far as she can reach, “you’re getting into some deep shit, my dude.”

He brushes her hand off. “Look, just because you pulled some cards from a deck doesn’t mean anything. He’s…He’s a _friend_.”

She taps a finger thoughtfully over her mouth. “You know, I bet he wanted to know your birthday so he could find out if your star signs are compatible,” she says, apparently continuing a topic he thought they’d left behind weeks ago. “I should ask what he is.”

For reasons he can’t explain, something compels him to blurt out, “He’s a Scorpio.”

“And why do _you_ know that?” she says, smirking.

“I learned it against my will,” he says, mentally cursing Indrid for apparently implanting that in his brain somehow. He reaches for the door handle. “Anyway, I’m going back to work.”

“Wait, you’re a Pisces, aren’t you? Leap Day? That’s a super compatible pairing!”

“I’m not an _anything_ , Aubrey, I wasn’t even born in this star system! I _made it up_ , so it all doesn’t work _anyway,_ ” he says, and he opens the door—

—and comes face-to-face with Mama. She has her arms folded, and she raises an eyebrow.

“ _It’s not what it looks like,_ ” Barclay says quickly.

“Yeah, I sure hope it’s not, Barclay,” she says.

“Hi, Mama!” Aubrey says, waving. “Um, how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to wonder what the hell you two are doing in there.”

“I…am helping Barclay…get over his fear of closets!” Aubrey says, and both Barclay and Mama stare at her incredulously.

“Is that right,” Mama says flatly.

“Um…well…” Barclay says, smiling weakly. “It _is_ very…claustrophobic…in here…”

“But see? It’s not so bad with a buddy, right, Barclay?”

“…Sure!” Barclay says, praying to God and Sylvain and to anyone that will listen.

Mama sighs. “How about you get back to work there, Barclay?”

“Yep!” he says, bursting out of the closet and already speed-walking down the hall, “Thanks again, Aubrey!”

And although he can feel Mama’s eyes on his back, he doesn’t _dare_ look behind him.

* * *

Joe digs his hand through his hair. “Are you _sure_ you didn’t?”

“ _Yes_ , Joe, I’m sure. Why do you think I would?” Barclay says, starting to get frustrated.

“Because I _had_ all my documents here this morning. I review them every day, Barclay, and now I can’t find three of my dossiers. And _you’re_ the only other person who ever comes in here, so you either took them when you brought over the donuts or I’ve somehow—”

“What?” Barclay says, eyebrows lifting. “What donuts? Joe, I…I didn’t bring you any donuts.”

“Then what are these?” Joe says, pointing to a box on the dresser with the Jolly Pirate Donuts logo on it.

Barclay’s eyes fly open, and a metal-sharp spike of dread pierces through him as he _realizes_. “Joe… I haven’t left the Lodge at all today. I didn’t bring you these,” he says quietly.

Joe’s eyes widen in turn. “Then what—?”

As if on cue, the television in the room displaying the local public access channel switches out from a splash screen for “Community Insights,” and Ned Chicane appears in its stead.

“Oh—are we live? Oh good. Good afternoon, my fellow Keplerians. My name is Edmund Chicane,” Ned begins, and both Barclay and Joe watch, transfixed, as the bastard bloviates and then broadcasts for all of Kepler to hear: “The monsters are _real_. They come through an archway into our world and—”

“ _Shit,_ ” Barclay whispers, and he’s already running out of the room before the broadcast ends, Joe calling after him, because oh _shit_ he has to get to Mama, oh _fucking shit_ —

* * *

Stern parks in his usual spot at Amnesty Lodge, and according to the clock on his dashboard, it’s already well past eleven. All the guest rooms have darkened windows, and no one’s lingering in the lobby either, which still has its lights on.

They’d barely said a word to each other on the winding drive back from the ski lodge.

Stern kills the ignition.

“Well, thanks for the lift,” Barclay says, undoing his seatbelt.

“Barclay, I—” Stern says, then he sighs, his hands gripping the wheel.

Barclay pauses with his hand on the door handle and looks at him.

In the rapidly fading interior lighting of the vehicle, Stern’s jaw looks sharp, and his eyes look…sad. The car’s lights fade out completely, and in the shadows, he says, “I’m sorry for springing all that on you back there. It really wasn’t the time or place for it, especially after all the excitement you’ve had this evening—and then with you going out of your way to be kind to me on top of it all. It’s a pretty poor way to repay someone, and I just…I suppose in my search for answers, I forgot my manners. I promise I won’t go Super Agent like that on you again, not without advance warning.”

Barclay offers him a small smile. “Hey, you were just doing your job, I get it.”

Stern takes his hands off the wheel and folds his arms. “Even so. A lot of my colleagues have a habit of forgetting that they are dealing with _people_ , not cases. I…well, I try my best not to forget that, myself—and for a moment there, I did.” He gives him a wan, faded smile. “I promise next time I won’t end the night on such a sour note.”

… _‘Next’_ time?

* * *

“Do you really have to go?” Joe grumbles, sleepily clinging to him.

Barclay chuckles. “Yeah, babe, really. Relax, you’ll see me at breakfast.”

* * *

Was there really going to be a _next_ time?

* * *

Barclay gently grabs Joseph’s socked foot and shakes it, which startles him enough that he flails awake.

“Don’t go back to sleep yet,” Barclay says, “Go brush your teeth first.”

* * *

Well, as long as Agent Stern is still living at the Lodge, there’s probably no avoiding a ‘next’ time, so Barclay smiles and says, “Well, I’ll look forward to it, then.”

The change is almost instantaneous. His head perks up a little, and his eyes widen, and then he smiles—and it’s like the sunshine came to a daisy, it’s that bright with relief.

And Barclay has a moment to wonder what the hell he’s just fucking _done_ , making nice with a fucking _fed_ , but Agent Stern is already opening the car door and the interior lights flood back on.

“We’d better get in before they lock us out,” Stern says cheerily.

Barclay squints at him. “You know I have a set of master keys, right?”

“Before _you_ lock me out, then.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” Barclay says, opening his car door and stepping out.

“It’s never too late, you know. Now’s your chance,” Stern chirps. Apparently Agent Stern has a sense of humor, strange as it is.

“Well, it’s not midnight yet, is it?” Barclay deadpans in return, “So you got eight minutes before I do.”

Stern smiles a bit cheekily and makes a point to walk just a _smidge_ faster to the front door, then holds it open for him.

And it really…it really shouldn’t be as charming as it is, honestly.

* * *

And it really should be a crime or something, to miss someone this much. At least when he’s _busy_ , he can avoid thinking about Joe too much. And luckily, he’s plenty busy these days: there’s about forty Sylvans that need to be transported in and out of H2Woah!: That Was Fun! to get their nourishment from the diverted hot springs, all while keeping an eye out for the swarm of FBI agents roaming around town, and then there’s working with Duck and Aubrey to get around roadblocks and planning their next move, and worrying about Mama, and cooking food for the humans on their side, and trying to keep everyone’s spirits up.

But when he lies down to rest in the twilight of pre-dawn, sure as clockwork, Joe comes floating back into his mind, and it’s all he can do not to burst into tears, Linda’s mothball-scented blankets not even reaching up to his shoulders.

It’s…stupid, really. He knows it’s stupid. There was no way this could’ve ended other than disaster, but for maybe…a week? No, ten days—no, _eleven_ days, not even two weeks, he’d deluded himself into thinking that sort of happiness could just go on forever.

But then the peak of Mt. Kepler came crashing down, and the FBI cordoned off the whole topside of Kepler, and Mama’s been in their custody for almost a month now.

And he can’t pretend Joe’s not part of it. He can’t pretend that Joe’s not over there right now in that makeshift compound they’ve got set up around the archway, probably patrolling Amnesty’s grounds in case anyone comes back, keeping Mama under lock and key.

So he’s got to just…keep looking out for his family. That’s all he can do now.

Even if he misses the way Joe’s arms curled around him. Even if he misses his laugh and his weird dad-joke version of flirting. Even if he’s not sure he’ll ever have that sense of inner peace with another person ever again.

Hell, maybe this would’ve been easier if they could’ve had cell phones. Or if he could’ve even risked writing him a letter. Or _something_ , because the last time he saw Joe’s face was at the archway when Ned was shot, when his expression was full of fear, confusion, worry, and…and _betrayal_ , and…and really, that’s it? That’s just how it’s all going to end with them, without another word, just that moment suspended in time?

It sucks, it _sucks_ and there’s nothing he can even do about it, and he can’t even end the best thing he ever had with the dignity it deserves.

He sighs and closes his eyes, feeling hot tears trickle into his hair.

The door to Linda’s bedroom _snicks_ open, and he hears her trundle into the kitchen and fill a glass of water. He holds still, desperately hoping she doesn’t notice anything, but of course he’s never been that lucky.

“Barclay, dear?” she says softly, slippers padding into the living room.

He hastily wipes his eyes. “You need anything, Linda?” he asks as she clicks the light on. He sits up on the hide-a-bed, realizing with some embarrassment that he hasn’t even changed out of his day clothes.

“No, Barclay, but I’m worried about you,” she says, setting the glass of water by him on the coffee table. She sits at the foot of the hide-a-bed and just _looks_ at him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He sighs and shakes his head, trying to wipe the exhaustion out of his eyes.

“Well, I do,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. She takes his hand and pats it a couple of times. “Your secret agent’s up topside, isn’t he.”

“…Yeah.”

“And he hasn’t sent you anything? A phone call, nothing?”

He half-laughs. “No.” Because it would be, at this point, _ridiculous_ to expect something like that—from either of them.

“Hmm,” she says, disapprovingly, but she squeezes his hand. “But you miss him.”

He swallows, squeezes his eyes shut, and nods.

She sighs. “Yeah, I felt about the same when my Joe left me,” she says, and Barclay blinks his eyes open and looks at her, startled. “What’s the matter?”

“N-Nothing, it’s just…that’s what…that’s his name, too,” Barclay murmurs.

She barks a short laugh. “No kiddin’? Well, funny little world this is,” she says, and bumps her elbow into his arm. “Guess we have the same taste in men.”

“Guess so,” he says, smiling weakly.

She sits with him in silence for a few minutes, holding his hand, and he doesn’t know why, but it helps a little just to have someone nearby to share in the moment, in a silence without judgement. It makes the air feel clearer.

“Well, Barclay,” she says eventually, “I think when all this business settles down, I’m gonna have to take Madeleine to court.”

He squints at her. “…Huh? What do you mean?”

“Well, it just ain’t fair that she gets to keep you to herself all the time. I think I’m owed split custody at this point. Every other weekend and—hm, well, I can’t very well take Mother’s Day from her, so I’ll take Father’s Day. How’s that sound?” she asks.

“I’m—Linda, I’m a _grown man,_ ” he says, chuckling. “You don’t need to _adopt_ me for me to come visit.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I just like having you around too much,” she says, smiling, and she pats his cheek. “Make sure you get some shut-eye, now, okay?”

* * *

“One last thing, though,” Joe says, after a moment.

“Hm?”

He presses both his hands around Barclay’s. “When you’re feeling better, I’m holding you to that PowerPoint presentation.”

* * *

“You sure we’re allowed to be out here?” Joe asks, nevertheless laying out multiple picnic blankets on top of each other on a patch of frosted grass.

“Yeah, I cleared it with Duck,” Barclay says, getting the fire going in one of those dinky public outdoor grills.

He hadn’t, actually, cleared it with Duck, because then he would’ve had to explain _why_ he wanted to use the campground by the river in the dead of night on Valentine’s Day, and he didn’t want to. But Barclay’s spent years of his life outside at night, so it’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Barclay fetches the bag of marshmallows and a pair of skewers, and he pops a marshmallow on each before handing a skewer to Joe.

“It’s been years since I’ve had s’mores,” Joe says with a smile, standing beside him as they toast marshmallows over the grill.

Barclay smiles back at him. “Not since Girl Scouts?”

“Well, they had them in Boy Scouts too. Not as much in the older ranks, though, for some reason. I guess they thought it was too childish or something, because they were more focused on hot dogs and hamburgers, which is obviously the inferior choice, in my opin— _ack,_ ” Joe says, whipping the skewer out of the fire with a flourish and blowing out the flaming marshmallow with cloudy breath.

“You can have mine,” Barclay offers, holding up his perfectly toasted, golden marshmallow.

“Thanks,” he says, and they trade skewers. With some fumbling because they forgot to open the chocolate bars and graham cracker box beforehand, they eventually manage to assemble the first s’more.

“Cheers,” Barclay says, and they lightly tap their s’mores together and chuckle when the marshmallows break apart from each other like stringy pizza cheese.

It tastes like heaven, just as a good s’more always does. “Best thing humanity’s ever made,” Barclay declares, covering his mouth as he talks.

Joe nods in agreement, swallowing. “No argument here.”

They start on their second marshmallows.

“So, did you have any other adventures in the Scouts that set you on the path to investigating cryptids?” Barclay asks after a moment.

“Oh, not really, no,” Joe says, carefully watching his marshmallow this time. “Between you and me, Girl Scouts was actually the funner program. The boys all seemed to want to one-up each other all the time, and it’s a _hell_ of a lot better selling Girl Scout cookies than it is selling popcorn and _pine straw_ , of all things.”

“ _Pine straw?!_ ” Barclay guffaws. “Who the hell buys _pine straw?_ I mean, just—” He bends down and picks up a handful of pine needles that are right at his feet. “—you can just _go outside_ and get it!”

“ _I don’t know,_ ” Joe says, heaving a sigh. “It apparently stops weeds from growing or something, I don’t know. It was stupid. I’ll take the cookies any day over that nonsense.”

Barclay’s still chuckling. “ _Pine straw,_ ” he says, shaking his head.

Joe looks at him and smiles. “How about you? Were you ever in Scouts or anything like that?”

“Me? Nah. My family was always sort of…woodsy, so I sort of learned it all as I went. Watch your marshmallow there.”

“ _Oh damn it,_ ” Joe hisses, pulling up another flaming marshmallow and blowing it out. He sighs. “I swear I’m not usually bad at this.”

Barclay snorts and lifts another perfect, golden marshmallow from the fire and reaches for Joe’s skewer.

“No, no, I’ll take this one,” Joe says, holding it away.

“Don’t be silly,” Barclay says, grabbing the skewer anyway. “It’s the Boyfriend Tax.”

Joe grins. “ _Boyfriend Tax?_ ”

“Yeah, sure. You never heard of it?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s simple enough—if your partner ends up with shittier food than you, you either trade it or share some of your own. Boyfriend Tax,” Barclay explains. At least, it was about how it translated over into human terms, anyway.

“Well, _hang on_ , how come _I’m_ not paying Boyfriend Tax then?” Joe protests.

“Because I haven’t burnt _my_ marshmallow yet,” Barclay says with a smirk.

Joe scoffs. “Oh, well, fat chance of _that_ happening any time soon, Mr. Perfect Marshmallow.”

Barclay assembles his far toastier s’more and decides right then and there that he’s never gonna tell Joe that he actually prefers the burnt marshmallows himself. “Get good, Stern.”

Joe sighs in mock exasperation and bumps up next to him, crunching vindictively into his perfect s’more. Barclay takes the hint and curls his free arm around his shoulder, and for a while they just eat in comfortable silence.

After they’ve eaten their fill of s’mores and extinguished the grill, they curl up on the mound of picnic blankets and heave a heavy faux-fur blanket on top of themselves and stare up at the stars.

It’s a perfect night for it. The sky is clearer than glass, and while the Milky Way has always been bright in Kepler, tonight it’s almost breathtaking, as thick as paint. The night air is cold and crisp, and although it’s below freezing, they’re both bundled up enough that it’s almost an afterthought, if not for the clouds of their breath disappearing up into the heavens.

“Wow,” Joe whispers after a moment, and he curls a gloved hand into Barclay’s. “You weren’t kidding.”

Barclay grins and squeezes it back. “Told you so.”

They watch the stars glitter in the silence of deep, secluded winter. About the only thing missing is a thermos of hot apple cider to share.

“Barclay,” Joe says quietly, shifting onto his side to face him.

“Hmm?” Barclay says, turning his head.

Joe smiles and briefly trails his fingers through his beard. “It’s not…not a serious thing or anything, just something I’ve been thinking about as I’ve gotten to know you,” he says, “and I guess I’ve just been wondering…why you never seem to talk about yourself much.”

And just like that, the night air freezes inside his lungs.

Joe must see the look of alarm on his face, because he quickly says, “No, I don’t mean—it’s not a _requirement_ , it’s just—I guess I just feel strange about it, because I feel like I keep talking on and on about myself when we’re together, but I feel like—like I hardly know anything about _you_ , really. And I just—” He sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to—I’ve-I’ve sort of got the impression that maybe your family history is a touchy subject, and that’s fine! Well, no, not fine for you obviously, but I just mean I _understand_ not wanting to talk about it and—”

“Joe,” Barclay says, pressing a thumb over Joe’s mouth with half a laugh. He shakes his head and looks back up at the stars, where maybe, possibly, Sylvain is somewhere up above them. He sighs. “I’m—I appreciate you not pressing on that subject, yeah. It’s…complicated to talk about. But…if you have other questions, maybe I can answer them. What sort of things do you want to know?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joe says with a sigh. “Whatever you might be willing to share, I suppose. Things like…what was your first job? What did you like studying in school? Do you have a middle name? That sort of thing.”

Barclay chuckles. “Well, that first one is easy. Dishwasher at a 24-hour truck stop diner out in Oregon, where I eventually worked my way up to chef. Flapjacks and burgers day-in and day-out. You know, easy stuff like that. I mostly worked the night shift, since I’ve always been a bit more of a night owl. Saw and met lots of different people. When that got old, I hitched a ride with one of the truckers and went somewhere new, got another job at another diner, and explored around the place. Kept on like that for years until I came here.”

“Sounds like you’ve been a lot of places.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve been to most of the continental U.S.,” Barclay agrees.

“And why cooking? Why not, I dunno, lumberjacking or something?”

Barclay sends him a wry look. “ _Lumberjacking_ , really?”

“You wear a lot of plaid!” Joe protests, “And I’ve _seen_ you chopping wood for the Lodge out there, it’s not like you don’t have the build for it!”

“ _Joe,_ ” he growls, and snags an arm over Joe’s midsection and pulls him closer, burying his beard into Joe’s neck and nibbling at his jawline. Joe practically starts _shrieking_ with laughter, apparently _enormously_ ticklish, and isn’t that just _adorable?_ “Why are you _stereotyping_ me, you asshole,” he rumbles into his ear. “I’m your fucking _boyfriend_.”

“Ahahahahahahaha s-s-stop, stop, I’m sorry, I—”

“A _lumberjack, **honestly** ,_” Barclay says with fond exasperation, pulling away.

Joe’s pink all over, still trying to catch his breath, and he wipes tears from his eyes. “I’m _sorry,_ ” he says again, smiling.

Barclay just shakes his head dotingly and flops back down to his side of the blankets. When Joe looks like he’s recovered enough, Barclay says, “To answer your question, it’s mostly because a chef can always find work anywhere he goes, but also because I just liked it. I watched a lot of Julia Child, and she always made it seem fun.”

“That makes sense,” Joe says, and he inches closer. Barclay opens up an arm and Joe curls right into his side, resting his head on his shoulder. He’s warm as anything. “And what about school? Middle names?”

“Wasn’t much for book learning,” Barclay admits. “Can’t do a math problem to save my life. No middle names.”

“Well, I’m…I’m happy to learn about you, all the same,” Joe says into his chest.

Barclay lifts his other hand and pets down Joe’s head and neck for a minute, eventually resting it on his arm.

“Think this might be the best Valentine’s I’ve ever had,” Joe murmurs.

Barclay smiles, and he feels…warm, maybe the warmest he’s ever been. “Same here,” he says quietly. After a beat, he asks, just for the sake of asking, “You got a favorite holiday, Joe?”

“Oh, Halloween by far,” Joe replies easily.

“Guess I should’ve figured that.”

“Mm. You?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Never thought about it much,” Barclay says, and it’s partly because while the American holidays are quaint, he’s never quite clicked with them; and it’s partly because the holidays that hold the most meaning for him are still back in Sylvain, and he doesn’t know how to translate them.

They’re quiet, and he can feel Joe breathing evenly against him. The moon’s not quite full yet; they have about a week before the next Abomination is due, and…and he wishes he hadn’t remembered that, because the Abominations have been getting so much smarter, and none of them have a clue what they’re going to be up against next. He squeezes Joe closer to him.

“Hm?” Joe says, stirring.

“Just wondering…say, Joe, when’s your birthday?” Barclay asks quietly.

“Oh,” Joe says, then snorts. “It’s November 1st.”

It takes a moment, but then it clicks. “Oh _no,_ ” Barclay says.

Joe sighs. “I know.”

“Oh, _Joe,_ ” he says, and he can’t help it, he starts laughing. “Oh, babe, _no_ , I’m so sorry!”

“Do you wanna know the worst part?” Joe says, leaning up on his elbow, and his face is _so_ bitter that Barclay just laughs harder. “The _worst_ part, Barclay? I was born at _exactly_ three seconds after midnight!”

“ _No!_ ” Barclay wheezes.

“The wrong gender _and_ I missed out on the best possible birthday in the year! That birth certificate is the worst tragedy of my _life_ , Barclay!” Joe complains, and Barclay just _roars_ with laughter until Joe can’t help but join in, and they giggle themselves silly until they’re exhausted, warm and curled into each other.

“You should just celebrate it on Halloween anyway,” Barclay says, nuzzling into Joe’s toque. “Everyone’s entitled to an official un-birthday, in my opinion. Hell, I have to do it for mine most years.”

“You know what? Maybe I will,” Joe agrees, and he props himself up so he can look into Barclay’s eyes. “We’ll have to do something nice for yours this year.”

Barclay smiles back at him. “I’d like that.”

Joe bites his lip, and Barclay would swear up and down that his eyes just _sparkle_. “Can I kiss you now?”

Barclay grins. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says, and lifts his head to meet him.

And it’s perfect, really, with a taste of chocolate and marshmallow and sweetness, and they’re warm with each other in a way the winter night can’t even touch, and he wishes they could just _stay_ like this, and that maybe the moon might freeze in the sky.

* * *

It’s been two months since he’s seen Joe.

* * *

“Joe, _please_ —”

* * *

Without warning, the portal explodes, and Barclay’s blown clear off his feet and crashes into the wall, an empty crate smashing into his ribs right after him.

When he wakes up again, everything is quiet and everything hurts. The splinters of a crate are in his lap. By some precious, lucky miracle, the other crates full of Semtex didn’t go off, and the slabs of the gate are still standing, but they’re black with char.

The portal is empty—no bright moonlight shining it open, no wisp of magical energy attempting to hide it from human eyes.

It’s…dead.

And Joe and Mama and Dani are still on the other side, along with the other members of the Pine Guard.

“ _Oh, god,_ ” Barclay whispers and staggers to his feet, hissing at what’s certainly a broken rib or two, and he stumbles to the gate, placing a scratched-up hand on its stone. It’s cold.

He experimentally pushes a hand through the opening and feels absolutely nothing but air.

“Oh Sylvain, no, _please,_ ” he groans, and knocks his already bruised head to the stone.

_Why_ did he let them cross over?

More importantly, why didn’t he go with them? Why did he _stupidly_ decide that it was more important to keep watching the gate in case more Quell monsters came through?

Now they’re all in Sylvain, probably all dead, and he’s just…here. Alone. On Earth. Again.

In a FBI compound, where sooner or later some suit’s gonna come and find him and—and that’s it.

That’s it. He’s lost everything now—Amnesty Lodge, Mama, his friends, his life on earth, Sylvain, and hell, even Joe, again.

_God_ , it hurts. Because for a second there, for a minute there, it seemed like—god, it seemed like maybe it would—well, that’s what he gets for getting his hopes up.

He sighs, turns his back to the slab, and lets himself slide down, his legs stretching out in front of him as he rests on the ground.

And waits for whatever comes next.

* * *

“Please…Barclay…”

* * *

“I have to drop off a couple of things at the post office. Do you want to come with?” Joseph asks.

Barclay looks up from his copy of this week’s _Lamplighter_. “Sure, just let me grab my coat,” he says with a smile, getting up from his deck chair on the front porch.

For February, the weather’s honestly beautiful. The sun is bright and clear, the snow sparkling and new, and it would be a waste to just sit around the Lodge all day.

When he comes back out, Joseph is running his car, getting it to warm up. Barclay slides easily into the passenger seat, which is still adjusted to his height.

“It’s a shame the funicular is still out of commission,” Joseph comments, “It would’ve been the perfect day for a walk.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Barclay agrees. “Remember to go slow down that hill—the shadier side of the mountain gets icy.”

“Will do,” he says, then hands him a thick catalogue envelope, a regular envelope, and a postcard. “Mind hanging on to these for me?”

“No problem,” Barclay says, looking over the addresses curiously at arm’s length as Joseph slowly pulls them out of Amnesty’s parking lot.

He feels a twinge of unease at the Washington, D.C. address on the catalogue envelope but decides it would be useless to ask about it; it’s clearly something work-related, and not only would Joseph probably not be _able_ to talk about, Barclay just doesn’t want to know. However, the identical Ohio addresses on the postcard and envelope catch his eye.

“Maggie collects postcards,” Joseph says, noticing him looking. “So I try to send her one from each place I’m assigned to.”

“How’s she doing?”

“As well as can be expected,” he replies neutrally. “I’m more worried about Liz, to be honest. She’s got a lot on her plate, trying to look after Maggie while keeping an eye on mom. Normally I try to call her when I can, but, you know—” He takes one hand off the wheel to make a sweeping motion that signifies ‘Kepler.’ “So I’ve been writing her letters instead. She seems to be getting a kick out of it.”

“That’s sweet,” Barclay says, smiling, and is a bit pleased to find that Joseph turns a little pink as he shrugs.

“It’s the least I can do.”

Barclay would argue that giving away your entire lottery winnings to your sister is above and beyond ‘the least he can do,’ but he’s not about to argue with the man on his modesty. Instead he looks over the postcard, smiling at the mini-mural of Bigfoot that he knows for a fact is painted on the wall in the Cryptonomica.

“Mind if I read it?” he asks.

“Go ahead,” Joseph says, concentrating on the road as they approach the curvy bit.

Barclay pulls out his reading glasses from the top pocket of his pea coat.

_Dear Maggie,_ it reads in tiny, tidy handwriting, _This is from a neat museum in Kepler, WV. It has lots of neat artifacts! It even has a piece of unicorn horn, but don’t worry, I think it’s just an unusual shell, so no unicorns were harmed. I will keep looking for them. Although the Bigfoot on here is scary, everyone in Kepler is very nice and friendly. I also like the mountains a lot. I miss you and your mom a bunch. Stay cool. Love, Uncle Joe_

“Aw,” Barclay says, grinning, putting his glasses away. “You tell your niece you’re looking for unicorns? That’s _adorable_.”

“She believes in them more than she does in Santa Claus,” Joseph says, chuckling. “She watched _The Last Unicorn_ every day for a month when she was five and apparently absorbed the idea that there must be at least _one_ out there somewhere.”

“Sure sounds familiar,” Barclay teases.

“That’s because she has _taste_ and _a scientific mind_ , Barclay.”

“Excuse me, but in what way are unicorns _scientific?_ ”

“It’s not inconceivable for a horse-like creature to have a horn. Look at the rhinoceros.”

“A rhinoceros isn’t a unicorn, though.”

“It actually might be. You know, all those medieval bestiary artists who never actually went to Africa or Asia trying to draw something they only have written accounts of—they’re bound to get the details wrong.”

Barclay snorts. “Yeah, so when are you gonna break the news to her, then? That her beloved unicorn is just a rhinoceros?”

“God, _never,_ ” Joseph says, and Barclay laughs.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Barclay sees something out-of-place up ahead on the side of the road.

“Hey, whoa whoa whoa, stop,” he says, and Joseph slams on the brakes.

“What? What’s wrong?” Joseph says, looking from side to side.

“No, it’s okay,” Barclay says apologetically, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Just put your flashers on for a sec, I’ll be right back.”

He gets out the car, crosses to the other side of the road, and looks down, hands on his hips.

A very sleepy-looking box turtle takes its first step onto the snow-dusted asphalt.

“Buddy, you are _way_ too early to be up,” he tells it.

The turtle takes another step onto the road.

Barclay sighs. “Well, all right, if you’re gonna be like that,” he tells it. At least it’s going towards the river, so it hasn’t been _completely_ turned around during hibernation. He steps behind it, bends down, and very carefully grabs it with both hands, making sure to support its bottom shell as he picks it up.

The turtle quickly retracts its head and legs as Barclay carries it across the road, and then he sets it down gently a handful of paces away from the road. He waits a minute, then nods to himself when it finally comes back out of its shell and continues forward, one step at a time. “Good luck,” he tells it, then heads back to the car.

He blinks in confusion as he comes back, because for some reason Joseph is resting his forehead on the steering wheel, hands still gripping at ten and two.

“Joseph?” he says as he slides back into the passenger seat. “…Is everything okay?”

And then he sees that Joseph is smiling a huge, wide, unbearably handsome smile.

Joseph heaves a sigh, and when he sits back up again and looks at him, his expression is almost radiant. “…Everything’s fine,” he says quietly, and his eyes are as warm as sticky toffee pudding. “That was just real sweet of you.”

And…and Barclay can’t look away.

Because _Joseph_ isn’t looking away.

Barclay’s cheeks burn, and he swallows, his heart chiming in his ears. This is exactly what he was afraid of, ever since that damn night on the porch, this exact moment, but somehow everything is still and clear.

“Barclay,” Joseph says softly, and his cheeks are glowing, “can I ask you something?”

Barclay’s hand reflexively slams onto the door handle, shaking, but he says, “Uh—um, mm-hm.”

“Could you call me Joe from now on?” Joseph says.

“What?” Barclay blurts, because that wasn’t in the script that lived inside his head.

“Please,” he says, and he leans in, and his breath is on Barclay’s mouth, and Barclay notices for the first time that there’s a faint scar shaped like a question mark near his ear, “I’d like it if you called me Joe, Barclay.”

“Joe,” he murmurs, and Joe’s eyes flicker down to his mouth.

And, oh, that’s not really what he’s asking—of course it isn’t, but it _is_ , too, and—and humans are so…they’re something, definitely. Definitely something, and—and Joe is radiant, and kind, and driven, and funny, in his own way, and curious, and he’s lingering just a breath away, expectation glowing from his eyes like a sunbeam on his skin.

Then something shifts—Joe’s eyelashes dip, and he starts to pull away. Barclay, seized with a panicked chill, presses a hand to Joe’s cheek to stop him, and thank god, he’s still warm, skin hot to the touch, even.

“Joe,” he says again, leans forward, and kisses him.

And he feels him smile into it.

* * *

Time flickers on a coin toss.

* * *

She flips the card.

* * *

“That’s right,” Aubrey says, “your best friend has been Bigfoot the whole time.”

Bless her, she’s obviously known or at least suspected it’s been more than that for a while, but even here at the end of the world, she’s willing to cover for them. True ally right there. He’d hug her if they weren’t all holding their collective breath and just…waiting.

Joe’s eyes are wide as dinner plates, and he’s staring right at Barclay. They’re wasting precious time on this, but—but they need this to _work_.

Barclay opens his hands and stares right back, then shrugs a little. It’s out now. He has nothing left to hide from him.

Joe swallows and lowers his hands, blinking. He takes a deep breath and straightens out his blazer jacket.

Then he smiles.

The window panel slides shut, and the lights in the hallway come back on. Barclay’s jaw drops, because it couldn’t—it couldn’t be that easy, it just _couldn’t_. Life doesn’t work that way, does it?

A door opens, and Joe steps out of the room he was in and joins them.

Barclay and the rest of the Pine Guard openly gawk.

“We better hurry,” Joe says, gesturing to the large metal door at the end of the hallway. His eyes flicker to Barclay, and they’re—they’re bright again, albeit focused in the moment.

Barclay feels something like a sugar rush hit his veins, and he’s shaking as he and the rest of the Pine Guard follow after Joe.

It almost feels like hope.

* * *

It’s been—

* * *

Who knows how long it’s been. An hour? Two hours? It doesn’t matter, really, but his ribs hurt like hell, and he’s wondering if there’s anyone even left in the compound to find him, because the silence is deafening. Wasn’t Agent Haynes locked in a closet or something? Maybe he should get up and let him out, get the whole thing over with already.

He sighs and—nope, nope, don’t do that. Hurts to do that.

_‘Sylvain, please,’_ he prays again, tapping his head against the stone slab.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to happen. A miracle? A police siren?

God, something, _anything_ is better than just sitting here, waiting.

With that thought, he starts getting to his feet, wincing and hissing at every wrong move that jars his ribs too much, using the gate slab to keep his balance.

He should probably put his bracelet back on. It’s gotta be around here somewhere.

He shuffles around the room, his eyes on the debris scattered across the ground.

It’s near the wall, apparently having been blown back in the explosion as well, but it seems to be mercifully intact, and as he ties it on, his sightline abruptly shrinks by two feet and the pain sharpens by _a whole lot_ , and he staggers to a crate and rests a hand on it, trying to catch his breath.

Tears spring to his eyes, and he struggles not to sob because sobbing _also_ hurts, but _damn it_. Just…damn it _all_ , what is he even supposed to _do_ now? He has no home to go to, no family to take care of, no _nothing_ , and it’s just—it’s not _fair_ , not when they made it this far and got _so close_ and—

“ _Barclay!_ ” he hears in the distance, and…no, it couldn’t be. He lifts his head, straining his ears to hear over his own shallow breaths.

“ _Barclay!_ ” he hears again, and maybe it’s closer, but it’s not coming from the gate at all, but…somewhere in the compound? How is that even possible?

“Barclay?!” The voice is right outside the door, and the tears in his eyes spill over, because it’s—

The door flies open, and there’s Joe, chest heaving and eyes a bit wild, a gash on his forehead sticking his hair with blood. “ _Barclay!_ Oh, thank _God!_ ” he says, dashing forward.

“J-Joe? _How the f_ —RIBS! RIBS!” he shrieks as Joe tries to hug him like a fucking python.

“Oh god oh jesus sorry I’m sorry are you oh god,” Joe says, pulling away immediately, hands shaking and dithering before he eventually settles them on Barclay’s cheeks. “What happened??”

Barclay breathes through the pain and closes his eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of Joe’s hands on his face, failing not to cry, because _this can’t be real_. “I should…be asking _you_ that…how the fuck did you get back here?” he manages.

“There was—there was like a spaceship or like a portal or—Duck led me back from Sylvain I guess? Ryan Gosling was there?? We had to blow up the portal to Sylvain and I got knocked out for a bit and everyone was gone when I woke up and I thought I was stuck there but then another hole opened in space and there was a _spaceship_ and—and fuck it,” Joe says all in one breath, and then he’s kissing him, and Barclay smiles into it.

When they break apart, Barclay runs a hand through Joe’s hair, and—and he’s not sure what his heart’s doing, but it feels cacophonous and wonderful. “I thought I’d never have this again,” he whispers, and his smile is shaky and watery. “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

“Me too, god,” Joe whispers back, and he’s crying too now. “So fucking much.”

“So…are y’all finally gonna tell me about this, or what?” another voice says from the doorway, and Barclay’s head shoots up. She’s leaning against the jamb with her arms folded, but she doesn’t look worse for wear than when he saw her last, and his heart just _soars_.

“MAMA?!” he cries, and he immediately staggers over to her.

“Careful, careful, your ribs!” Joe says behind him, saving Barclay from doing something utterly stupid because he really _wants_ to just hold her forever if he can.

He settles for just gripping her shoulder as tight as he can and beaming, and she’s smiling back, exhausted but—for once—at peace.

“Agent Stern here drove us back up the mountain to come get you, but I guess he was in a bit of a hurry. My knees don’t keep up like they used to,” she explains. “By the way, Aubrey told me to tell you to shut up already, she’s doing her best.”

“What?” Barclay gasps, trying not to breathe too hard from sheer excitement.

Mama sighs. “It’s a long story. We’ll deal with it later.” She pats the hand on her shoulder, then squeezes it. “Looks like you could use a hospital there, Barclay. We’d better get going.” She fits herself easily under one of Barclay’s shoulders, then eyes Joe over. “Well? You gonna help take care of him or what?”

“Of-Of course,” Joe says, sliding himself under Barclay’s other shoulder. “…As long as he’ll have me, anyway.”

“Good answer,” Mama says, and Barclay just grins, because apparently miracles _do_ happen in Kepler, West Virginia—and that’s why he’d never want to be anywhere else.

* * *

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Stern asks, passing Barclay a _Lamplighter_. Stern’s all bundled up and carrying a messenger bag with who-knows-what in it, about to head into town to conduct some interviews and hopefully find more leads for his case.

Barclay nods his thanks for the _Lamplighter_ and says, “Haven’t decided yet. Still trying to figure out dessert first.”

Stern smiles, amused. “You plan the dessert _first?_ ”

“Well, why not? It’s easier to make up your mind about. Then I can figure out what goes with it.”

Stern shakes his head. “If you say so.”

“Got any requests?” Barclay asks, because in spite of himself, he’s curious what Stern’s favorite might be.

He takes a beat to think it over, then says, “What about pecan pie?” He says it the Louisiana way, too, _puh- **kawn**_ , the latter vowel dragging out slightly, which is just the vaguest hint where his family might originally be from, because otherwise Stern has the nondescript accent of Standard American English.

“You got it,” Barclay says, and Stern smiles. Unless Barclay’s mistaken, it looks like a real one, too, instead of one of his usual polite ones.

“I’ll look forward to it, then,” he says, and Barclay makes a note to include the recipe in the regular line-up, right after Mama’s preferred batch of good old-fashioned apple dumplings.

After all, it doesn’t hurt that pecan’s his favorite, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! [The Blue Ghost Firefly](https://hgic.clemson.edu/blue-ghosts/) that Stern talks about is entirely real! I’ve never seen them myself, but (this is gonna sound fake) my best friend’s husband did when he was young, though rather than fairies he thought they were “haints,” and he only figured out what they were after seeing a documentary about them when he was older. Now, you might be wondering, “did this person just write an entire fanfic so they could finally have an excuse to Spread Knowledge about this _super cool_ and utterly unknown bug?” _You bet your ass I did, reader._ I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for _years_ and now you get to join me in this glorious revelation!! You’re welcome.
> 
> Also, don’t @ me, cartomancy enthusiasts, I don’t know how tf tarot works. I tried my best. ToT
> 
> And I’m aware no one but Me will probably care about this, but full disclosure: Linda-the-hospital-receptionist came first in this fic, and as I went on, it simply made sense to me to combine her with the eternally off-screen Mrs. Pierson/Pearson/Peerson, even though her characterization ends up contradicting canon Mrs. Pierson a bit. I decided this incredibly minor detail wasn’t canonically devastating enough to call it “canon divergent” lmao.
> 
> Lastly, thank you so much for reading! Of course, I always welcome comments and kudos, but if you enjoyed reading and wanna spread this to your friends/followers who might be interested in it too, I’d appreciate it if you reblogged [this link](https://canolacrush.tumblr.com/post/643390824686731264/keeping-all-my-secrets-safe-nobody-does-it) from my tumblr to help get the word out. I haven’t appeared in Tumblr’s tags for…years, now, no matter what black magic I try to perform to make it do so, so word of mouth’s the best I got! Thanks again! :D


End file.
